


This is Me (In My Eyes)

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Steve is his, Angst and Feels, Brotherly Love, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky and Steve in Wakanda, Bucky is everyone's adopted brother, Cute Kids, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Farming stuff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nightmares, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Recovered Memories, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Violence, Wakandan hospitality, and beyond, they get lots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 92,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.“Sorry for what?” Steve angled his head to look into Bucky’s face.“For not telling you sooner.” Buck looked at the ground. “I just wanted to… make it special, I guess.”Steve was grinning, Bucky could feel it all the way through his arm. “Well, you got that right. Sure, you had me a little worried, but,” he squeezed Buck a little closer for a moment. “I think it was worth it.”Some things change. Some things don't.Bucky ran for two years, afraid that who he had become wouldn't be enough, wouldn't make Steve smile the way he had in the video at the museum. He couldn't have been more wrong.Sequel to 'Way Back When (When We Were Young)'





	1. Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is! Bucky's bookend to Steve's 'Way Back When'.  
> This will take more time to write since the chapters are longer and a lot... deeper, I guess. I didn't realize how much work this would take, first shifting to Bucky's POV for an entire chapter fic (though there will be a few snapshots through Steve's eyes; couldn't resist:) and then the research to make 'my Wakanda' as authentic as possible.  
> There will be lots of talking in languages other than English. Wakandan (otherwise known as Xhosa) is a funny language to work with and I use a combination of Google translate and online dictionaries. All other translations are courtesy of Google.  
> The culture references are a combination of various African countries and what we glimpse in the movies. Any suggestions to authenticate this story will be welcomed!  
> The farming/agricultural stuff is taken from my own experience, with African alterations of course.  
> I have massive respect for people from Africa and their way of life and I hope that comes through.  
> Of course, there's all the usual stuff from Bucky's past (and Steve's), but I do my best to acknowledge the darkness, without lingering there.  
> A reminder that references will be made to Way Back When and Christmas Again, but this can be read alone.  
> Chapter titles are taken from songs in my S&B playlist, which I hope to pull together on YouTube sometime.  
> As always I am constantly critiquing and editing the finer points of my works. Feel free to tell me what you like and don't like.  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This one is for my Three Musketeers: Claire, Mary, and Sis. With massive thanks to sista Griselda_Banks who continues to inspire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 4, 2017  
> Approx. 7 AM  
> Picks up three minutes after Way Back When  
> (In a nutshell, Steve just flew halfway across the world to find that Bucky's free from HYDRA's programming, and now it's time to celebrate.)

He’d only been out of the city a week, but Bucky Barnes had almost mastered swimming in the river with one arm. Except having his best friend trying to dunk him was a new wrinkle.

Except… it wasn’t. Even as Steve lunged at him, and he dodged, taking a wave of water in the face from Steve’s landing, Buck knew he’d done all this before. Several times at the cottage in Maine. Even though Aunt Sarah would have skinned him alive if she knew what he was talking her sickly little boy into.

Of course he wasn’t so sickly now. Buck gave a grunt of surprise as two strong arms grabbed him from behind and hoisted him out of the water, before tossing him further out into the river. The water closed over his head, before he could yell even one of the insults running through his mind.

He thrashed a bit, before he realized it was too deep for him to touch bottom, and he let himself just float. His head broke the surface and he sucked in a lungful of fresh air, before he found himself snorting and coughing, having gotten water up his nose again.

Then Steve bobbed up next to him, grabbed his arm, towed him back to where he could put his feet down. “Revenge is sweet, huh, Steve?” Bucky spluttered, wiping his face.

“You’re okay?” Steve asked. _Darn those worried eyes!_

“I must’a done that to you a dozen times,” Bucky shrugged.

For a moment Steve went still, staring at him, and Bucky suddenly wondered how the heck he was going to answer the flood of questions racing through Steve’s eyes. But Steve just grinned, “Yeah, you must have.”

Side-by-side they made their way back toward the shore, until they hauled themselves out onto the dock. Steve looked down at himself, then Bucky, the water streaming from their clothes, which were now plastered to their skin.

“Ain’t we a pair,” Bucky cracked. “Two old men, lookin’ like a couple of drowned rats.”

Steve was laughing. Face-crinkled-up, mouth-open, lose-his-breath laughing. Buck was laughing too, with the sheer ridiculousness of, well, everything.

“Come on,” Bucky finally said, when they had both quieted. “You can come get some dry things at my place.”

Steve peeled his shirt off and wrung the water out, before pulling it back on. “I _think_ the clothes I have’ll be big enough,” Bucky added. He back-handed Steve in the bicep. “You’re gonna make me look bad in front of the kids.”

“Already regret asking me hang out at your place?” Steve asked, grinning.

“Never,” Bucky replied, so fervently he surprised them both.

Steve chuckled, and for a brief moment, Bucky was caught somewhere on the outside, watching himself and his best friend in the whole world, walking a hard-packed path away from a river in Africa, with the sun spilling over their right shoulders, making jokes, and just… walking. No marching, no hurry, just like a stroll in Prospect Park or– Steve’s shoulder bumped his, drawing him back to the present, but the sense of- of- of- _inadequacy_ remained.

This was all too _good_ for him. He didn’t deserve this, he could _never_ deserve this.

Steve nudged him again. “You okay?” he asked, but then a sudden understanding knocked the worry out of his eyes, and he simply slung an arm around Bucky’s neck, and Buck let himself breathe again.

Today wasn’t about him, it was about Steve. If ever Steve deserved something, he deserved a day to relax and enjoy himself, and celebrate his birthday. He had always read Steve, like an open book, large print. He’d been trained to read a person’s face, their body language, to distinguish between the cleverest disguises, to sense the slightest shift of posture in a fight. But as kooky and sentimental as it might sound, somehow, after all these terrible years, he could still do the one thing he had been most afraid to find lost. He could still read Steve’s _heart._

Buck had sensed Steve’s weariness all the way across the world, from wherever the ‘Secret Avengers’ had been the last time they Skyped. And after the final breakthrough, after coming down from the shocking high of what that all meant, he had looked at the calendar and known what he wanted to do.

It had killed him not to contact Steve. But the work of moving out to the country, (not that he had much to move, but the mental processes had been challenging) and the joy of physical labor on the animal pens, and adding another room to the hut, and especially that dock, had been an okay distraction.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

“Sorry for what?” Steve angled his head to look into Bucky’s face.

“For not telling you sooner.” Buck looked at the ground. “I just wanted to… make it special, I guess.”

Steve was grinning, Bucky could feel it all the way through his arm. “Well, you got that right. Sure, you had me a little worried, but,” he squeezed Buck a little closer for a moment. “I think it was worth it.”

They walked in silence for a minute, before Steve added, “I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

Bucky snorted. “And _I’ll_ keep saying it until _you_ believe _me_.”

They were both laughing.

Bucky would never be able to fully describe that moment when the truth of what Steve meant to him, and, to a lesser degree, what he seemed to mean to Steve, had hit him.

Dr. Dal, as Bucky called him, his head shrink, had ended up helping with some of the physical work of moving and was handier than Buck had imagined, having never seen the man outside his office. They had been taking a break, sitting in the sun and drinking something cool, and talking about… whatever. Some question had come up, something he’d heard someone say (where or when he could not recall), the question of how, in 70 years in a hell-hole called HYDRA, he had never been able to break free, until that day in DC when the world turned on its head.

The conversation had jumped around, but Buck kept coming back to that nagging thought. Until he was lying in bed that night and…

_‘cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

He had rolled over to bury his face in the pillow as he wept at the upsurge of emotion that swept through him, something so powerful he would be ashamed to call it anything less than love. Love for the man who saved him.

HYDRA had dug their claws into him with that first needle in Austria. But when he fell from the train, his whole world had slipped through his fingers. As the Winter Soldier rose, Bucky Barnes kept falling.

Only now could he look back and see how that moment, when Steve called his name for the first time in those 70 years, had irrevocably cracked the foundation of the Winter Soldier. All during the fight on the helicarrier, every time Steve spoke, every time those bright blue eyes met his, it was like a knife in his head, persistent, nagging. Just like Steve himself, the little punk.

Then he had stared into Steve’s battered, bloody face, and heard those words (throwing Bucky’s own words back in his face), and something clicked. _Steve. Don’t hurt Steve. No one hurts Steve. Help Steve. I help Steve._

Steve fell, the Soldier let go, and that was when Bucky stopped falling.

Once his mission to save the world had been accomplished, Steve had been willing to do anything, even die, to break through to his friend. He almost _had_ died, because of Bucky’s abuse…

Buck shuddered, and something warm touched his cheek. He realized that he and Steve were standing at the crest of the hill, and Steve was facing him, one hand on Bucky’s good shoulder, the other resting against his neck, Steve’s thumb brushing along his jaw.

Bucky blinked at his friend, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, and relief swept across Steve’s face, before he pulled Buck into an embrace.

This was going to be a day for hugs, Bucky thought, as he rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, let the ache bleed out, let the comfort flow in.

He could hear Steve breathing in his ear, shifted a bit, then wrinkled his nose. “What the heck did you eat last night?”

Steve pulled back, gave him a bemused grin, before frowning guiltily. “I… um, don’t remember.”

Bucky went to cross his arms… and opted for jabbing Steve in the chest instead. “Okay, punk, when was the last time you ate?”

Steve dropped his chin, rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “Umm, actually–”

Bucky cocked his head at a telltale growl from Steve’s stomach. He shot Steve a disgusted look. “And _I’m_ supposed to have a bad memory? Dang it, Steve, you’re supposed to take care of yourself.” He turned and stalked down the slope in the direction of a group of about a dozen huts. “I’ll bet if it wasn’t for Sam watching your back, you’d have dropped dead of either starvation or exhaustion on some stupid mission, and then where would I be? You’re only human, you know. For gosh sakes,” he added, half under his breath.

He sensed Steve jogging to catch up, but here came the kids, swarming around him, pressing against his legs, demanding to know where he had been and why he had gone swimming in the river without them. Bucky laughed at them, greeting them each by name, “Avi, Mabhuti, Nontasasa, Fundani…” His voice faltered as the smallest of, what he called ‘the Three Musketeers’, gabbed his hand, little fingers slipping to close around his last two fingers.

“Khwezi,” he smiled, and the little boy skipped in place, swinging his hand.

“ _Ingcuka Emhlophe._ Can we eat with you?”

“Yes, you can, but go say ‘hi’ to Steve first.”

Still giggling and chattering like a flock of birds, the rest of the children, Nontasasa and her little brother Mabhuti, Avi and Fundani, abandoned Bucky to surround Steve.

Steve was staring at him, the oddest storm of emotions in his eyes. “They won’t eat you, idiot,” Bucky called, and Steve’s smile broke through the clouds.

Khwezi was still hanging off Bucky. “What will we eat?” He added something in Wakandan, too fast for Bucky to catch.

“Just wait and see,” Bucky grinned. He disentangled his hand from the boy’s and stooped to scoop him up in his one arm. Khwezi’s skinny little arm wrapped around his neck.

A clear memory of carrying the twins, Anna and Elizabeth, home from the store, Steve helping Mrs. Barnes with the bags of groceries… He smiled.

Bucky led the way off the beaten path in the direction of his own hut, glanced back at Steve, who had a kid on each arm, another on his back, and Nontasasa dancing alongside.

_“Ungumntakwenu?”_

Bucky blinked at Khwezi, and the little boy tried again, gesturing between Steve and Bucky. _“Ubhuti?_ He is your…?” he stuck for a second, then his eyes lit up. “Brother? He is your brother?”

 _“Ewe. Ewe kunjalo._ We will have a party for him tonight,” Bucky added, trying to cover his emotion, as he set Khwezi back on his feet.

 _“Kwaye siya kudanisa?”_ the boy asked in excitement, jumping in a circle.

“Dance? _Ewe._ Yes, you can dance for him.”

Khwezi bust into a lively song, and the others joined in, laughing and bouncing where they hung off Steve. Avi had his arms wrapped around Steve’s neck from behind, and Steve made a choking noise, before sinking to his knees in mock defeat.

Chuckling to himself, Bucky knelt to restart his cooking fire. “Why you do woman’s work?” Umkhulu would say, and Bucky would laugh and tease that she was just trying to find him a wife, and his cooking was actually very good.

He cocked his head and heard her voice for real, calling the children. “Fundani,” he called. “Umkhulu is calling. Go tell her you are eating with me.”

He ran off, Avi on his heels, and Steve collapsed into a sitting position. Mabhuti crawled into his lap, and Nontasasa snatched him up. _“Uya kufumana!_ Go change your clothes,” she added to Steve. “It will take too long for you to dry in the morning.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, eyes laughing. _“Les hommes sont nés pour être gouvernés par des femmes.”_

 _“_ _Malheureusement pour nous.”_ Bucky answered.

***

Some days Bucky wished for a camera, or at least Steve with his sketchbook, to capture the beauty and the… surprises that kept showing up. But neither would be needed to seal this image in his memory: Steve, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, a sketchpad in his lap, five little dark-skinned kids crowded around, spellbound by the pictures flowing out of the big white man’s pencil.

Then there was Steve’s face when Buck tossed him the roughly wrapped package, and he found the paper and pencils. “I haven’t drawn since…”

“Christmas?” Bucky finished. “Well, hurry up and get going. I need some stuff to paper my walls with.”

“Don’t think you can get any more popular with these munchkins,” Steve grinned. They were standing just inside the hut, the children tending the fire outside, and Steve lowered his voice. “Who are they all?”

“Mabhuti is Nontasasa’s little brother. Their father was killed in one of the revolts after the whole…” Bucky waved his hand, “challenge thing. The Three Musketeers live with Umkhulu—their grandmother. I don’t know what happened to their parents.”

Steve was silent for a minute. “Funny,” he muttered. “I guess I had this idea Wakanda was… perfect.”

“We’re all human,” Bucky said quietly. “What’s the saying? To err is human?”

Steve smiled. “To forgive, divine.” He clapped a hand on Buck’s shoulder, and ducked out the door, then paused. “What are we having for breakfast?”

“Pancakes,” Bucky called back. “I think I can still make those.”

Steve’s laughter was music.

Now, Bucky sat back on his heels. “Hey, Steve,” he called. The blond head, among the dark ones, jerked up.

“Yeah?”

_“Avec des baies ou sans?”_

There he was, laughing again. _“Avec._ Like Sam made them?”

_“Oui.”_

_“Umzalwana Weengcuka Ezimhlophe,”_ Avi said, patting his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Keep drawing. It is _nwabisa.”_

Steve twisted his head to give him a _Huh?_ look.

Nontasasa noticed. “Brother of _Ingcuka Emhlophe_. This is…” she hesitated, looking for the word, “fun!”

Steve raised one eyebrow. “Brother of who?”

 _“Ingcuka Emhlophe,"_ she said again, pointing at Bucky this time.

And there went that grin. In that smile, it was yesterday that they romped through the woods of Maine, or downed their sodas at… wherever they always went, or teased Dum-Dum.

Bucky stayed somewhere between smiling like an idiot, and swallowing hard, the whole time he was stirring up batter and flipping pancakes. It had taken him a couple tries to perfect the whole process over an open fire, but the knowledge he’d gained back in the war had slowly returned.

They feasted that Independence Day morning, with a Coke for Steve and a Pepsi for Buck, which the kids all begged to sample, and none of them liked except for Mabhuti, who liked the Coke, and Khwezi, who slugged back half of Buck’s drink before he could stop him.

When they had popped the caps, both men paused, looking at each other.

“To today,” Bucky said quietly.

“And tomorrow,” Steve added.

“And good memories every day after,” Bucky finished.

They each took a long drink, and came up laughing, with suspiciously damp eyes.

Umkhulu came by for the children as they were cleaning up, waving away Buck’s offer of help with whatever chores she had cooked up.

 _“Unjani namhlanje, uCaptain?”_ she added to Steve. “Welcome to Wakanda. I know _Ingcuka Emhlophe_ has been waiting for you. You are a good man to take care of your _ubhuti._ Your brother,” she added, mistaking Steve’s confused look.

The little old woman gazed steadily at Steve, who looked back, a torrent of emotions swirling in his eyes. Only Bucky’s enhanced hearing allowed him to catch Steve’s whispered, “Thank you, ma’am. _Enkosi kakhulu.”_

Bucky glanced over in time to see Steve bend down and pull her into a hug, which she returned. _See, pal? You’ve done the right thing more than once. You_ are _a good man._

“It’s his birthday today,” Bucky called over. “His…”

Nontasasa jumped in with a quick burst of Wakandan, and Umkhulu smiled even bigger. _“Usuku lokuzalwa olumnandi.”_

Steve grinned, needing no translation. “Again, _enkosi,_ ma’am.”

“Now, come on you _ezincinci.”_ She caught Avi and Fundani’s hands and strode away. Nontasasa grabbed Khwezi and Mabhuti, who waved over their shoulders as they skipped off.

Steve stood watching them go, and Bucky came up to nudge his shoulder. “Quite a family, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Steve murmured. “Sure are.” He turned suddenly to give Bucky another hug. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered in his friend’s ear.

_Not ‘what if’. What is._

“Right back at’cha, Stevie.” Bucky squeezed hard with his one arm, then stepped back to rub his hand over Steve’s hair. “Welcome home, pal.”

 

_When your hands worn down to the bone_  
_And you’re not sure you can stand on your own_  
_And the darkness won’t leave you alone_  
_Well, I will guide you home._

_-‘Guide You Home’ by Sugarland_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan (Xhosa)  
>  _Ingcuka Emhlophe_ : White Wolf (Memorize that one. It’ll be used A LOT.)  
>  _Ungumntakwenu?_ : Is he your brother?  
>  _Ubhuti_ : brother  
>  _Ewe kunjalo_ : yes, of course  
>  _Kwaye siya kudanisa?_ : And we will dance?  
>  _Uya kufumana_ : You will get wet  
>  _Umzalwana Weengcuka Ezimhlophe_ : Brother of the White Wolf  
>  _nwabisa_ : fun  
>  _Unjani namhlanje, uCaptain?_ : How are you today, Captain?  
>  _Enkosi kakhulu_ : Thank you very much.  
>  _Usuku lokuzalwa olumnandi_ : Happy Birthday  
>  _ezincinci_ : little monkeys  
> French (sorry, couldn’t resist. Wanted to do this since I heard Steve in TWS.)  
>  _Les hommes sont nés pour être gouvernés par des femmes._ : Men were made to be ruled by women.  
>  _Malheureusement pour nous._ : Unfortunately for us.  
>  _Avec des baies ou sans?_ : With berries or without?  
>  _Avec_ : With
> 
> Once I have given a translation, I will not likely repeat it in the notes, especially for common phrases, like 'thank you', 'how are you', and the names and titles of people. I will always try to give some idea of what people are saying in the context. And if you really think it drags the story down, please let my know. This chapter probably has the most jabbering in it anyway.
> 
> Hope you liked it, and feedback is always appreciated!


	2. Some Days Are Diamonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should add: mention of suicide attempt/s.  
> But the light is greater than the shadows, the sun is bigger than the mountains.

_Bucky’s dad was sick. Really sick. He was in the hospital and the doctors were doing their best, but…_

_Bucky held his mom while she buried her face in his shoulder and cried. “Shh, Mama. It’ll be fine, Dad’ll be fine. Shh.”_

_His own heart beat a dull rhythm of fear. The whole family was stretched so thin; the girls in their cramped room, Bucky sleeping on the couch, if you could call it sleeping these days. He was always so tired, but somehow too tired to sleep. All the odd jobs he was doing after school, with Steve’s help, who always slipped his share of the money into Bucky’s pocket somehow, though neither of them ever mentioned it._

_He had a sudden, strong wish for Steve to be here, and his mother too._

_“Let me put some tea on, Mama. You’re the one who says that always helps.”_

_She let him lead her to a kitchen chair, and he put his handkerchief in her hand, not bothering to check its status. She wiped her face and blew her nose, though the sobs kept coming._

_Bucky hurried to the stove to put the kettle on, and as he passed the front door, he heard a faint tapping sound. He paused, and again there were three quick taps._

_He didn’t bother to check the peephole, just twisted the bolt open and took off the chain. The visitor opened the door just wide enough to slip in, and shut it hastily behind him._

_“Gosh, it's a wild one out there.” Steve peeled his scarf off and rubbed his hands together. His eyes met Bucky’s, and he stilled. “How bad is it?” he asked softly._

_Bucky didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded his head at his mother. Steve’s glance was quick, but he understood everything. “Want me to get Mother?”_

_Bucky set the kettle on the burner, with a hand that shook ever so slightly. He squared his shoulders. “No, we- we’ll be okay, thanks.”_

_He could feel Steve watching him, as he grabbed the tin of tea off the shelf, set it on the counter. “Okay. I’ll just go tell her I’m spending the night at your place.”_

_Bucky turned to see Steve’s back as he left, not waiting for an answer. A gust of icy wind and he was gone._

_Bucky turned back to face the stove, and stood still, warmth seeping through his chest. It was something Steve reminded him of every time the world got darker. Even if his father’s pride had cut them off from his extended family, Bucky never had to bear the weight alone._

_Steve was supposed to be small and weak. But he never hesitated to step in, shoulder to shoulder with his friend. Half the time—more than half the time—he was the stronger one._

_Bucky had the tea steeping in the pot, when Steve slipped back in. He grinned at Buck, before shrugging out of his coat and pulling off his boots. “Hi, Aunt Winnie,” he said softly, sitting down next to her, and patting her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything, ‘til Uncle George gets home. He’ll be right as rain in a couple weeks. Hear me?”_

_She nodded and blew her nose again, the sobs having subsided to uneven breathing._

_“Now you should probably drink some tea and go to bed, alright?”_

_She sniffed several times, then sat up a bit straighter and made a swat at Steve’s shoulder. “And who made you the man of this house, Master Rogers?”_

_Steve ducked, chuckling. “Sorry, ma’am. But you know you should listen to me.”_

_The horrible feeling that he might cry, melted away, and Bucky took his first deep breath since early that morning, when he woke to hear his mother calling the doctor. He would put an extra spoonful of honey in Steve’s cup, just for that._

Bucky could almost taste the tea, the flavours dancing on his tongue, except… He opened one eye and rolled his head to the side, just enough to see Steve, hunched over the sketchbook.

“What kind of tea did I make?”

“Huh?” Steve jerked his head up, blinking.

“Tea. My dad was sick and my birthday was in two days, and my mom was crying and I didn’t want the girls to wake up, so I sat her down and made tea. But you showed up and spent the night.”

Steve smiled. “Couch cushions on the floor?”

“Had to keep warm somehow,” Bucky murmured, momentarily distracted.

“Did we once have a fight about that?” Steve asked, frowning.

Bucky grinned now, and propped himself on his elbow. “Yep. That was when we made the rule: each person’s gotta have their own blanket. You kept kicking me when you thought I was taking too much, and I–”

“You were,” Steve interrupted. “You were too big.”

“Then you got too big,” Bucky shot back.

“Blanket’s got too small,” Steve countered. He picked up his pencil, then smiled. “Peppermint. It was your mother’s cure-all. Peppermint tea with honey.”

“And a chunk of your mother’s gingerbread,” Bucky sighed, flopping back into the short dry grass. He closed his eyes against the noon sun.

The words came with the thought. “I can’t remember Mother’s face.” He heard Steve’s pencil still again, and any more words went sideways, lodging in Bucky’s throat.

There was a moment of silence.

“Sometimes…” Steve’s voice was just above a whisper. “Sometimes I forget too.”

Bucky’s eyes flew open, and he stared at Steve.

Steve took a long breath. “The serum gave me an almost perfect memory,” he started, the words slow and faltering. “But that doesn’t always include stuff from before. In the war, I’d sit on my cot and watch you write home. I’d close my eyes and try to picture Mother sitting at home, waiting for a letter from me, but all I’d see at first were the blood and guns and a dead face covered in dirt. But not enough dirt.” A shuddering sigh.

“Then I’d picture the kitchen table where we sat to do homework, and Mother would sing to us, and I could see her sitting there, but I… couldn’t make out her face. The way her eyes–”

_I remember a dead man’s eyes, and not my mother’s._

“It scared me more than any guns.” Another deep breath. “Then, I’d be doing something, helping patch you up, or smelling supper, or hear you singing one of her songs. And she would just… be there. I could see her clear as day.”

Bucky shut his eyes, not wanting to spoil that tender little smile. “But I can’t,” he whispered through his teeth, hating himself for the stab of jealousy. “She’s… gone. At least, her face…” He added bitterly, “At least you got to be at _your_ mother’s funeral. At least _you_ got to say good-bye.”

Quiet, except for his ragged breathing and the clamour inside his head. He had a strong inclination to get up and bolt, not make Steve deal with another of these runaway thoughts.

“Buck. Just breathe, okay?” Steve’s voice was almost lost on the breeze. “Just breathe.” A hand settled on Buck’s shoulder, gentle but strong. He could feel Steve’s deep breathing, and, almost against his will, began to copy him.

He cracked his eyes open, squinted through tears into the sun, then abruptly rolled over and hid his face in his arm. It wasn’t a hard cry, just enough to ease the knot in his chest, to wash away a little of the pain. Steve’s hand rubbing circles on his back, was another kind of balm.

When the tears ran dry, he sat up and mopped his face on his shirt. Pulled his legs up to wrap an arm around them, and rested his chin on his knees. Steve shifted close enough to bump his shoulder against Buck’s, and Buck leaned into the pressure.

He closed his eyes again, and this time listened: children shouting in the distance, goats ma-aa-ing, birds singing, the splash of paddles and voices from a canoe passing on the river. Steve rustling pages, and giving a small sigh.

“She had hair like Anna, and eyes like yours, but her face was just like Becca’s. Same tilt to the chin.”

Bucky opened his eyes, and turned his head to look at Steve, who was staring down at his sketchbook, the page hidden from Buck’s view. “You remember for me,” he said, managing a little smile.

Steve lifted his head, started to give Bucky that sideways, ‘you’re being such a jerk, good thing you’re my friend’ look; which melted into the bittersweet ‘too many emotions running around inside, but I’m so glad you’re here’ smile. He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then glanced back down.

“Here.” With a quick motion, he tore a page out, and handed it to Buck. “Look over that for a while. I should go find my stuff and see if Sam has called.”

Buck’s fingers closed around the fluttering paper, but he was looking at his friend, as Steve gave him a quick side-hug, then stood. He hesitated, waiting.

Bucky smiled at him, then stretched his legs out, and smoothed the page in his lap. It took several minutes for his brain to process what he was seeing.

He never noticed when Steve left.

***

Steve moved into a steady run, enjoying the feeling of the dry grass and earth underfoot. He hadn’t gone barefoot since he was a kid. Or maybe the last trip to Uncle Harold’s farm. His happiness at being with his best friend in about as safe a place as you could find these days, was enough to overpower the soldier instincts. At least for one day.

It took him all of five minutes to get from the hillside where he and Buck had been sitting, to the hut on the other side of the little village, where he had ended up _not_ sleeping. The thick mat and pillow would probably have been more comfortable than the rough boards of the dock, but Steve smiled as he unzipped his duffle bag, and pulled his phone out.

Three text messages.

Sam: _Happy Birthday, bro. Hope it’s a good one. :)_

Princess Shuri: _string of celebratory emojis_

Princess Shuri: _We will see you tomorrow. My brother asked me to be at some completely unnecessary meetings today. I’ll put bugs in his suit for this!_

The first two made Steve smile; the third made him laugh out loud. _Asked? Read as: commanded._

He hesitated, torn between wanting to call Sam, and wanting to get back to Bucky. But Buck should have some time to absorb the sketch Steve had given him. He was willing to bet it had been years since Buck saw a picture of his mother.

He carried his bag to the doorway, sat on it, stared out at the view without really taking it in.

Steve knew the bitter would always be mingled with the sweet. His mother had said something like that once, adding, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” He did.

Dr. Dal had said something similar, that time when he was making Steve and Bucky talk through their one _big_ fight in the last six months, via a Skype call between Venice and Wakanda. “The shadows will fall as long as there is a sun to shine.”

But as long as the sun came up in the morning, Steve could take it. They could both take it. After all, they weren’t in this mess alone.

He dialed Sam’s number.

***

Bucky could hear Steve laughing when he came around the corner. Mabhuti bolted ahead, and Steve saw him just in time to throw out an arm to catch him.

Steve grinned at Buck, and stood up, holding the little boy. He held his phone out to Buck, who had to disentangle his hand from Khwezi’s. The kid promptly attached himself to Bucky’s leg.

“It’s Sam,” Steve said, before he was tackled by Avi and Fundani.

It was hard to carry on a conversation, with kids shrieking in the background, and Bucky wanting to do nothing but thank Steve a dozen times over, preferably with hugs.

“Sounds like you’re having fun,” Sam said.

“Yeah, wish you could be so lucky.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s tone wasn’t teasing. “I’ve never heard Steve sound like that.”

Bucky knew what he was talking about, and smiled. “1934. Last birthday at Coney Island, before his mom got sick. I threw him in the ocean with all his clothes on. Then he jumped me and dragged me in with him, and we looked like a couple idiots. The girls kept throwing sand at us every time we tried to get ashore.”

“Do you know how much you sound like an old man?”

“You’re the one who groans like my Aunt Margarita in the mornings. And she’s been dead forty years.”

Sam’s groan was half laugh. “I hate you.”

“Same to you,” Bucky grinned. “Hey, I’d better go rescue Steve. The kids are about to do what ten men couldn’t.”

All four boys had piled on him, pinning the big man in the dirt.

“Definitely needs your help, then,” Sam said. “See you round, man.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” Bucky fired back, then hung up. Bugging Sam was fun.

But not as much fun as being with Steve and these kids.

When they were all vertical again, Steve swung Mabhuti onto his shoulders, and Nontasasa seized one hand. “Come with us. We will show you _Umyezo wase-Eden_.”

“Hey. You said you couldn’t take me there.” Bucky frowned at her. “How come he gets to go?”

Nontasasa looked at him like he was crazy. “Because you must see it together.”

Steve grinned at him. _“La reine a parlé.”_

Nontasasa’s face scrunched up in a look that could have burned curious holes through Steve, and Bucky ended up almost crying in his effort not to laugh.

They left Steve’s stuff at Buck’s hut, and crossed the half-mile of savannah to the forest. Nontasasa led the way on their jungle trek.

Bucky kept watching the way Steve tilted his head to stare up at trees that Buck still couldn’t name, or stooped to let Mabhuti lean off his shoulders to grab a flower off a bush. He noted the way the sunlight, slipping through the leaves, dappled the ground, and the way Nontasasa’s laughter sounded like bells ringing. He closed his eyes for a moment to bring up an image of Steve’s sketch.

Khwezi skipped next to him, singing some song, then stopped abruptly, staring up at him. “Your face looks like the sun.”

Bucky laughed, and Steve laughed with him; then Nontasasa’s cry distracted them. “The butterflies!”

They had reached a clearing that ran ahead for maybe 200 yards, ending in a 20 foot rock wall. A small waterfall cascaded down it, into a rocky pool. The breeze was blowing the spray back into the falls, and Bucky sucked in his breath. Anywhere there was bare ground, was covered in clusters of little yellow butterflies.

The children dashed ahead, like they were chasing seagulls at the beach, scattering the butterflies, which rose around them ‘til they were dancing in what looked like the reverse of falling leaves.

Mabhuti was bouncing on Steve’s shoulders, shouting, and Steve swung him down, then followed obligingly when the little boy tugged his hand.

As Bucky walked forward, he had the distinct feeling he _was_ entering Eden. There were really no words for walking through a cloud of little yellow butterflies, with a waterfall in the distance, and the sun shining in a blue sky, and the laughter of children and his best friend in the world.

Khwezi was spinning, arms stretched out, a tiny whirlwind of joy. Until he missed his footing and fell.

Buck was by his side in a minute, setting him back on his feet, wiping the tears from his cheeks, and crouching to examine a scape on the skinny little knee.

“Let’s go wash that in the waterfall,” he said.

In no time, Khwezi was laughing and dancing again, with a bandage—a strip of cloth torn from the bottom of Steve’s t-shirt—wrapped around his knee.

The pool was surprisingly deep, deep enough for swimming. The kids dove in without hesitation, and Steve and Bucky followed, laughingly ditching their shirts this time.

In the two years on the run, Bucky had often thought about death. The memories of those he had killed. His own close calls. The memory of Steve’s face and words: _…the end of the line._

He remembered that he had been physically incapable of leaving Washington DC, until he saw in the papers that Captain America was still alive and going to be okay. Then he had fled, terrified that his handler’s voice, his orders, would take over.

More than once, in the middle of a black night when the demons screamed at him, or nameless ghosts called his name through the haze of the withdrawal, he had wished for the end. He had wished he had the guts to end it all. But every time he walked to the edge, something pulled him back.

Once it was Steve and Sam getting too close. Another time that old neighbour in St. Louis came by, and without a word, cleaned the entire apartment and left a meal on the counter. And once he had woken up and known nothing, except that he had thrown the knife out the window.

And still he had run, terrified that Steve would find him, terrified that Steve wouldn’t. He was too messed up, too damaged. He couldn’t be Steve’s friend, couldn’t be that man who made that promise all those years ago.

Then Steve found him, and looked him in the eye. _“You pulled me from the river. Why?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

Steve had not flinched, only sharpened his gaze so it sliced right through Buck. _“Yes, you do.”_

And Bucky knew. Whatever he was, whoever he had been, nothing would drive Steve away.

Sitting in that container, in the chair (not The Chair), he had made his choice. Maybe for once Steve was right. Maybe he knew something Bucky didn’t. And Steve never lied.

_“My name is Bucky.”_

Dying wasn’t something he wanted to do anytime soon. In some small way, he wanted to do something good with his life, the life Steve had given him. He wasn’t going to waste it.

But if he had to pick a last day to live, it would be just like this. Splashing and yelling and laughing and throwing kids… and Steve, hoisting Mabhuti over his head, laughing up at the little brown boy, the sun turning water droplets to diamonds—and Bucky’s tears to a golden mist.

***

There were meteor showers that night. Had been for the last couple nights, but Buck hadn’t bothered watching.

Darkness fell quickly here, and as the blackness settled, and the cooking fires became little beacons, they tossed their scraps into the flames. The children had gone home for supper, Nontasasa and Mabhuti’s mother stopping by to thank them for babysitting.

Bucky glanced at Steve, who was staring into the flames, smiling slightly.

_Fire. It can mean war, death, destruction. It can mean warmth, friends, home._

“Wanna sleep outside tonight?” Bucky asked. “Count the falling stars?”

They had done that as kids; he had a brief glimpse of them sitting on the dock in Maine. Or were they sitting on a hill somewhere in Europe?

Steve looked up with a smile. “Sure.”

They were lying in the quiet, close enough to reach out for, by some unspoken agreement. Bucky snugged the blanket more tightly around his shoulders; the nights could get chilly, especially with their version of winter coming on.

“I made a wish once,” Steve murmured.

Bucky’s eyes traced one meteor’s path, as it blazed and faded.

“I wished you would still be my friend the next summer.”

“Sorry. It’s not next summer.”

Steve laughed softly. “No. No it’s not.”

Bucky turned his head and made out Steve’s hand, reaching in the dark. He caught it, squeezed once, twice, three times.

At some point Bucky felt his eyes beginning to close, and he turned on one side, back to Steve. “Happy Birthday, Stevie.”

“Goodnight, Buck.”

 

_Some days are diamonds, some days are stones,_   
_Sometimes the hard times won’t leave me alone._   
_Sometimes the cold wind blows a chill in my bones,_   
_Some days are diamonds, some days are stones._

_-‘Some Days Are Diamonds (Some Days Are Stones)’ by John Denver_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan (Xhosa):  
>  _Umyezo wase-Eden_ : Garden of Eden  
> French:  
>  _La reine a parlé._ : The queen has spoken.
> 
> I have no idea if the butterfly thing is true anywhere in Africa, but that’s exactly what happens in the late summer here in southern Ontario, the day after a rain. The magic of walking through a cloud of those little butterflies is really indescribable.  
> And I had to fudge things a bit with the meteor shower. I couldn’t find out if they would be visible in Wakanda. ;)  
> Hope this isn’t too disjointed or anything. Some parts I struggled with, and I was almost falling asleep near the end. :) Goodnight all!


	3. Hey Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I was nervous about writing Shuri, T'Challa and Nakia, so please be nice!

_Steve was sprawled across the bottom half of Bucky’s bed, humming some song, his pencil keeping time on the sketchbook._

_Bucky’s stomach was full from the best Thanksgiving supper he could remember, and his eyelids were beginning to get heavy. He stuck a folded piece of paper in between the pages of_ Smoky the Cowhorse _, then paused, and smoothed out the paper._

10 Things I’m thankful for in 1927:

1 The best mother in the world

2 Bucky, the best friend (and I wish he was my brother)

3 Mother’s gingerbread and apple cake and turkey dressing

5 Drawing pencils

4 Buck visiting when I was sick last week

6 The Barnes family having us over for Thanksgiving

7 Buck Rogers and Tarzan comics that Bucky brings over

8 Mother’s singing and the way she smiles

9 Art lessons

10 a mother who makes me write this and a friend to share it with

Oops I guess that’s 11.

_“Buck?”_

_Bucky started, like he’d been caught with his hand in his father’s candy pocket, and slammed his book shut, paper inside._

_Steve sat up, stared at him, yawned. “You tired?”_

_“Yeah.” Bucky set_ Smoky _on the nightstand, and dearly hoped Steve wouldn’t notice his flushed cheeks._

_Steve leaned over to set his sketchbook and pencils on the floor, then crawled across to wriggle under the blankets beside Bucky._

_“Do you think your folks‘ll get you a dog for Christmas?” he asked, moving closer to the bigger boy’s warmth._

_“Dunno. Maybe,” Bucky added, trying to sound normal. “Hey, can you sing that song your mama was singing?”_

_“Which one?”_

_“I dunno. Your favorite.”_

_Steve sighed, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Hummed to himself, then began to sing softly._

_“Tell me why the stars do shine, tell me why the ivy twines…”_

_Bucky didn’t pay much attention to the words, and suddenly interrupted. “I know I can’t be your real brother, but how about we just pretend we’re brothers?”_

_Steve turned his head on the pillow to stare at his friend, and Bucky was almost startled by his smile. “O’course. I already do.”_

_“Yeah.” Bucky knew he had a stupid grin, stretching from ear to ear. He grabbed Steve’s hand under the blankets. “Like Damon and Pythias?”_

_“Or David and Jonathan,” Steve agreed._

_“Friends forever and ever, right?” Bucky asked, snuggling up against Steve’s side._

_“Yeah.”_

Bucky became conscious of something tickling his face, and he swatted at it without opening his eyes. “Go’way, Steve.”

A giggle, small and high—definitely not Steve.

He cracked one eye open, then the other, and looked into three grinning brown faces. Fundani held a feather poised above Bucky’s face. With a groan, Bucky rolled onto his back and stretched, making the horrible faces the boys loved.

“Go jump on Steve,” Bucky said, grabbing at Khwezi and digging his fingers gently into his side. Avi and Fundani jumped over Buck, and without hesitation, threw themselves on top of Steve, who was already starting to sit up.

“Wha-?”

Bucky sat up smirking, as Steve was knocked flat. “Gotta wake up early to stay ahead of these kids, pal.”

“So much for watching my back!” Steve finally got both boys in a bear hug, and got to his knees. They kicked and struggled, shouting breathlessly in Wakandan.

“Let’s go help ‘em,” Bucky said to Khwezi. “You go high, I’ll go low.”

At the little boy’s gleeful nod, Bucky dove for Steve’s knees, felling him again, and Khwezi jumped to wrap his arms around the blond man’s neck.

Faced with this fresh onslaught, Steve gave up on the boys and went right after Buck. Bucky struggled to ward off his grip, not having much practice fighting with one arm, but no way was he backing down. At some point it turned into a real match, the kids standing back to clap and cheer, as the two white men wrestled in the dirt.

Steve kept trying to grab Bucky’s arm, and Buck kept twisting away at the last second. He rolled fast, and Steve rolled after him, but Bucky ducked under Steve’s flying left arm, looping his own arm around Steve’s shoulder, and yanking his chest down onto the ground.

Still with his arm twisted around Steve’s, Bucky managed to lever himself up to flop across Steve’s back. Before he could swing his legs around, though, Steve abruptly flipped over, using his other arm for leverage. Bucky was flung off, and the wrench in his shoulder, as he popped free of Steve, made him pause for a second, flat on his back.

With a quick move, Steve rolled on top of him, pinning Buck’s arm down, with his fingers wrapped around Buck’s wrist, then got to his knees, straddling Bucky’s stomach. Their eyes met, and they both stilled, panting. And then they were laughing, Buck so hard he had trouble catching his breath.

Steve pulled him up to a sitting position, then bent over and put his hands on his knees. He twisted his head to grin at Bucky. “Thought you had me, huh?”

Mabhuti was suddenly there, throwing himself at Steve. “ _Umzalwana Weengcuka Ezimhlophe!_ You win! You beat _Ingcuka Emhlophe!”_

Steve rubbed his hand over the little boy’s head, which reached just past his knee. “How about you just call me Steve? Less of a mouthful.”

Mabhuti seemed to understand, and immediately began to dance around, chanting, “Steve. Steve. Steve. Steve is the winner. _USteve ungumlweli.”_

“Little traitor,” Bucky said, taking Steve’s offered hand. “I’ve been giving you rides all week, and in a day you just forget me?” Then he grinned at Steve. “You just got lucky. Remember I used to take you with one hand tied behind my back. Looks like it’s the other way around now.” The expression on Steve’s face was hilarious, as he tried to decide whether or not to laugh.

Bucky started chuckling again, and Steve joined in. “Yeah, well I thought you had me for a minute.”

They were dusting themselves off, when Khwezi said, “When will we dance? You said we would dance for him.”

“You can dance for all of us. Tonight at the palace.”

All of them turned, startled.

“Shuri!”

Bucky saw that she had been filming with her kimoyo bracelet, which she shut down as the Three Musketeers ran to throw themselves at the Princess, and get their hugs. He glanced at Steve, barely concealing his grin.

“Greetings, Captain Rogers,” T’Challa called, not hiding his amusement. “It is good to see you are feeling at home.”

“I’m glad to be here,” Steve answered. He made an aborted movement forward, except Mabhuti was now standing on top of his feet, clinging to Steve’s hands to balance himself. Steve chuckled and blushed at the same time, and awkwardly duck-walked with the giggling little boy to shake T’Challa’s hand.

“And how are you today, Bucky?” Princess Shuri finally shook off the kids, and came to him. “Need to improve your technique I see.” To his surprise, she stepped right in and gave him a hug.

When she pulled back, he smiled down at her. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Again.”

Instead of making a smart remark, she swung round, Bucky’s arm still across her shoulders, to nod across at her brother and Steve. “How is he doing? Although, I suppose that is a stupid question.”

Still with Mabhuti standing on his feet, Steve was rocking side-to-side, amusing the boy while he chatted with T’Challa. As Bucky and Shuri watched, Steve tipped his head back in a deep laugh, and he stooped to hoist Mabhuti to his shoulder.

Bucky gave a husky chuckle. “That little kid’s got stars in his eyes.”

“Well, I suppose I must consider my job finished then.” Shuri stepped back, looked him up and down, hands on her hips.

Bucky could see the cloud on her expression, and he gave her his best crooked grin. “Well, you can always work on a new arm, just in case Steve actually does need me to help save the world, or something. Or Wakanda needs me.”

She brightened and cocked her head. “It would make your old one look like… a tin can?” She smacked his arm, trying to look offended by his laughter.

“Little sister,” came T’Challa’s voice. “Are you making fun of _Ingcuka Emhlophe_? Or is he making fun of you?” To Bucky he added, “Please feel free. She needs someone to give as well as receive.”

Bucky shook his head, even as he shook T’Challa’s hand. “Actually, I do my best not to. I know which side my bread’s buttered on.”

“But sometimes he can’t help himself,” Shuri butted in.

Bucky glanced past the royal visitors, and gave Okoye and Ayo a short nod. The King’s bodyguard unbent enough for a pair of return nods.

“Sergeant Barnes.” A woman had appeared at T’Challa’s side, smiling.

“Queen Nakia,” Bucky replied, bowing slightly. There was something more regal, less playful about T’Challa’s wife, and Bucky felt a bit shy around her. Odd maybe, he could still be a charmer with the ladies, but she was a _Queen,_ for heaven’s sake. He had really only met her a couple times, since she was frequently travelling on International Outreach missions.

“I have not seen you for a while. How are you settling among my people?”

“Very well, thank you, ma’am. Everyone is very kind. Too kind, really.”

“It is our duty to share what we have, to take care of each other. I have no doubt that you will find some way of paying us back. As will he,” she added, nodding at Steve who stood a little apart, talking to Shuri.

Bucky could see by his expression that Steve was getting emotional, probably attempting to thank the Princess.

“Shuri wanted to see how you were getting along,” T’Challa said, smiling ever so slightly, “and we wanted to invite you to the palace for a meal tonight. If you would like to join us, we will send a hover-craft for you.”

“And please bring the children, and their mother and grandmother,” Nakia added. “It will not be formal, just friends.”

Bucky could not quite disguise his sigh of relief. “Yeah, don’t really have anything ‘formal’.” He made quote marks with one hand. “I think that would be great. Ntando is bringing the goats and sheep this afternoon, so I’ll need to get them settled, but that shouldn’t take long.”

Nakia suddenly smiled impishly, eying his wrinkled, still dusty clothes. “If you wear that, you will be thrown out on your ear. Just make yourselves presentable. I see the children have taken a great liking to both of you white men.”

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah. No idea where that came from.”

They chatted for a while longer, and Bucky took them all around to the animal pens, gave them a grand tour. Shuri and Steve trailed a little behind, Shuri talking a mile a minute, and Bucky caught enough to know she was describing more of the ways she had ‘fixed’ Buck.

If Bucky really thought about it, both he and Steve owed Shuri, and her family, a debt he doubted they could ever pay. Seriously, what could you do for a princess and a king? Just about the only things he had done: promised not to cause trouble, and promised to fight for them.

Steve, and these amazing people who had practically adopted him, were the only reasons he would ever fight again. It was a simple life he craved now.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nakia take T’Challa’s hand, thread her fingers through his, lean into him. That was one thing he doubted he’d ever find.

Him? Married? Sergeant Bucky Barnes, war veteran, and former Winter Soldier? One arm and a headful of nightmares? Not likely.

Two small hands grabbed his, and he looked down into Nontasasa’s face. “Did Khwezi say we were invited to the _Citadel?!”_

Bucky smiled down at her. “Yep. No fooling.”

“Can Mama come too?”

“Of course. Someone has to make sure you two stay in line.”

***

“You. A farmer.” Steve leaned on the fence beside Bucky and shook his head. “I never saw this one coming.”

Bucky snorted. “Neither did I.” Once more he counted the heads. 1, 2, 3, 4 brown-and-white spotted goats. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 white sheep. Ntando had told him, “Sheep are easier. Less brains. Goats can be too smart.”

Bucky had laughed. “I like my animals smart.” But he’d taken Ntando’s advice. The man came from a long line of herdsmen on both his mother’s and father’s sides, so he ought to know his onions.

Ntando had first offered the animals to Buck as a gift, but one look at Bucky’s face and he’d quickly apologized. They had struck a bargain of Buck giving him half the goat’s milk for the first three months, and half the sheep’s wool at the first shearing. They were all young animals, no more than six months old; better for imprinting on Bucky, Ntando had said.

“Are you gonna name them all?”

Bucky shrugged. “Maybe. If some of them stand out.”

“Like Whitey and Snowball and Snowflake…” He cracked up as Bucky shoved him, and there was some good natured horse-play, before the animals fled to the other side of the pen.

“Now look what you did,” Bucky growled, letting go of his friend. “You scared ‘em.”

“ _I_ scared them?” Steve pretended to look offended, then ducked through the fence rails. “Well, let’s meet these girls.”

“Ntando said to just keep them penned up for about a week, let them figure out this is home now.” Bucky dug his hand into a pouch slung at his side, and tossed a handful of grain near his feet. Immediately a couple of the sheep came nosing round, and one of the goats that muscled it’s way to the front, another following in her wake.

“Becca,” Steve said.

“And Connie,” Bucky said. “The other two should be Anna and Lizzy.”

“They’re all easier to tell apart with the different patterns of spots– Hey!” Steve slowly dropped into a crouch, getting down to the animal’s level. He pointed out one of the sheep. “This one has a black eye.”

“Call it Steve.” Bucky scattered a couple more handfuls of grain on the ground.

“Hey! I thought they were all girls.”

“Okay, Stephanie then.”

Steve rocked back on his heels, squinting up at Bucky. “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

“Sure.” Bucky eyed his friend, squatting in the short grass, almost eye to eye with a sheep, still wearing the clothes Bucky had given him the previous morning. “You are gonna need a bath before we go _near_ the palace.”

Steve mock glared at him. “Have I mentioned how much you smell like Africa?”

“That I _will_ take as a compliment.”

“Steve! Steve!”

The man was standing, spinning toward the sound before Buck could take a breath. The animals scattered as Steve strode to the fence, vaulting over, and dropping to one knee in front of a very agitated Mabhuti. Bucky followed at a slower pace, rather amused at Steve’s response to the little boy’s call.

Mabhuti grabbed Steve’s hand, tugging him along, and he followed, even as he tried to understand what was happening. It was a minute or two before they finally untangled the story, and by then the men could see what was wrong.

Nontasasa had been climbing a tree and gotten her foot stuck between two branches. Their mother had told the girl to stop climbing trees, she was too old for it, and Mabhuti did not want his sister to get in trouble and maybe miss out on dinner at the palace in a few hours.

The girl, perched about ten feet up, leaning against the branch on her right, lifted one hand in a little gesture: _Quick, quick!_

They stopped beneath the sparsely branched tree, and Steve gave her a reassuring grin. “We’ll have you out in no time.”

A quick inspection showed that, where the trunk split in two, there was an odd little hollow and another lump, where either a branch was going to grow or had grown. Into this space Nontasasa’s foot had somehow slipped and stuck fast.

“You work from below,” Steve said, leaping to grab a branch and swing himself up. Nontasasa squealed and grasped her own branch tightly, as the tree rocked wildly.

Mabhuti said something very quickly, using Steve’s name a few times. Buck guessed it to be a reassurance.

It did take them only a minute. Steve braced himself, a foot on each branch, and gently lifted Nontasasa straight up. With a bit of careful levering, Bucky freed her bare foot, and she gave a long sigh of relief. “You can drop me,” she said over her shoulder, and Steve hesitated only a moment before he did so.

 _“Khawuleza! Khawuleza!”_ she said, waving one hand at Steve, who leaped down after her. “My mother mustn’t catch us.”

“Okay, okay.” Bucky grabbed her hand, and Steve picked up Mabhuti. They exchanged a grin over the girl’s head, as Mabhuti leaned down to pat her shoulder.

As they walked back among the huts, they could hear a woman calling. She came around a corner and spotted them.

“There you are! Time for you to come home. Get ready for tonight.”

Nontasasa ran to hug her mother, who smiled at the men. _“Enkosi kakhulu,”_ she said as Steve handed Mabhuti over, the little boy reluctant to leave him. “They enjoy being with you both so much. I wish I didn’t have to work so hard, and Umkhulu has enough work taking care of those three _ezincinci.”_

“Khanyiswa, right?” Steve asked.

She nodded, looking pleased, and Bucky noticed, not for the first time, that she was pretty, especially when she smiled and the little worry lines on her forehead disappeared. He wondered why she hadn’t remarried.

“Our pleasure, ma’am.” Steve rubbed his hand over Mabhuti’s head. “We’ll see you two tonight. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Nontasasa gave him an indignant glare, before pulling her mother away.

Bucky nudged Steve with his elbow as they turned to head back to Bucky’s place. “I think she likes you.”

“What?” Steve’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Khanyiswa?”

“Yeah. You’ve got Mabhuti wrapped around your little finger– Or is that the other way around? Whatever. You're gold to those kids. It took them days to start talking to me! And you’re practically their freakin' _dad_  already.”

Steve gave a little laugh. “Yeah, they’re- they’re… probably the sweetest kids I’ve ever met. Sure is... I don’t know, homey? to have them around.” He sighed. “But, you know. I’ve got work to do. People to help. Battles to fight. No time for… that.”

Bucky could sense the shift in his mood toward ‘Captain America’. “And you’ve got a girlfriend already, anyway.”

“Huh?” Steve looked even more startled.

“Sharon. The Carter girl.”

Steve might have blushed, but he ducked his head and looked away before Bucky could be sure. But the real tell was the way he lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck. "Aw, come on."

“You kissed her," Bucky said, as if it explained everything.

“Shut up, jerk.” Steve was half-grinning as he shoved Bucky playfully. He shrugged then, ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Right now… I mean… What I do know is: she’s a friend I can count on. And I need all I can get of those.”

“Woah." Bucky elbowed him again. "Thought you were serious there."

Steve looped an arm around his neck, roughed a hand over his friend's hair. "Are you trying to be funny, or are you just always an idiot?"

 

_Hey, Brother_  
_do you still believe in one another?_  
_Hey, Sister_  
_do you still believe in love I wonder?_

_Ohh_  
_if the sky comes falling down for you_  
_there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do._

_What if I'm far from home?_  
_Oh, Brother, I will hear you call._  
_What if I lose it all?_  
_Oh, Sister, I will help you out._

_Ohh_  
_if the sky comes falling down for you_  
_there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do._

_-‘Hey Brother’ by Avicii_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan (Xhosa):  
>  _USteve ungumlweli._ : Steve is a champion.  
>  _Khawuleza!_ : Hurry!  
> 20s/30s slang:  
> Know your onions: know what you’re talking about/doing
> 
> So, I'm probably going to make that the norm: starting the chapter with a memory, then coming back to the present. I'm really beginning to find the differences between these guys. As I like to say: Psychologists might have to do _some_ writing, but every writer _is_ a psychologist.  
>  The next chapter is probably going to be darker.  
> Hope you're enjoying this!


	4. So Far

_Christmas dinner. The smells of turkey and cedar mingled, as Bucky wandered into the kitchen._

_Steve was at the counter, Anna teasing him for the secret combination of seasonings in the Rogers family turkey dressing. Steve wasn’t exactly smiling, but he seemed to be enjoying himself._

_If Bucky’s parents did move to Jersey, to live with Becca and Frank, he hoped Steve would still visit them. And keep an eye on the girls, wherever they went._

_Steve glanced up, caught his eye, made an exasperated face, and grinned at his friend._ I’m fine, _he mouthed._

_They sat around the big table, and Bucky cracked jokes with Frank, listened to the laughter. He savoured every mouthful; after months of army camp rations, his mother’s cooking was heavenly._

_Little JB cooed, and laughed, and beat his spoon on his high-chair._

_“You want more potatoes?” Becca asked._

_Steve’s gaze caught on his, and something flashed between them. Something vaguely unsettling, a sense of needing to savor this moment, because there might not be another like it._

_He felt his mother watching him, turned his head to smile reassuringly. The candle flames danced in her eyes, reminding him of the sun setting in a deep blue sky…_

“… Buck?”

He jerked his head up, met Steve’s gaze across the table.

“Pass the salt?”

“Oh, sorry.” With a flick of his fingers, he skimmed the little bowl across the glossy varnished mahogany. Steve caught it without looking, his eyebrows pinching together. Bucky gave him an exasperated look, then smiled and mouthed, _I’m fine._

Steve made a wry face, then unconsciously rubbed one hand along his jaw, the stubble he’d accumulated over the last couple days. Mabhuti, sitting on his right, poked at him. “Will you draw for us later?”

“Sure, if we have time before you have to be in bed.”

“You haven’t let me see anything else from the sketchbook yet,” Bucky said, stirring his meat stew to cool it.

“Almost done,” Steve answered, catching Mabhuti’s glass as his hand knocked against it. “Just got one more to do.”

“Better be good,” Buck said, then pointed his spoon at his friend. “Hey, you should show the king some of your stuff. Get some royal commissions, make a little honest money.”

He was half teasing, but Steve ducked his head, blushing, and looking oddly guilty.

“He has spoken highly of you,” Shuri said, from her seat beside her mother at the foot of the table. “I would love to have some pictures of ancient technology, like cars and things, to keep in my lab and make fun of when my projects don’t go well.”

“Oh, they don’t always work?” T’Challa grinned across at his little sister,

“Only the ones you want me to work on, because your ideas are so small they are hardly worth trying, and invariably fail. I only do because you are my king.”

Bucky had to duck his head and fight a smile, but a pea hitting his hand told him he’d been spotted.

“Shuri,” her mother Ramonda reprimanded.

Glancing up, he caught Shuri’s wicked grin, and Ramonda’s apologetic smile. It was so full of motherly love and exasperation, that Bucky was glad of Khwezi demanding his help with cutting up his meat so he could hide his face.

The food was all very African, but the table settings American style. Buck had found it easy down in the village where people were quite traditional and often ate with their fingers, but he just quietly picked the dishes that could be eaten with one hand.

And that was how most of the dinner went. The king and princess teasing each other, and dragging Bucky in, Nakia asking Steve about his childhood, and actually getting answers, and the mothers all sharing stories.

It had surprised Buck at first, the accessibility, the down-to-earth caring of this royal family. A younger single-mom and an old grandmother, chatting with the queen mother about food and education, a little girl asking the princess for fashion advice, little boys asking for the king’s battle stories… And he and Steve, two really old, or not so old, white guys stuck in the middle of it all.

It was almost like… a family. He slammed the door on that thought.

Steve was his only family now, not that he deserved him either, but he would never refuse— _could_ never refuse—the other man’s unconditional love and friendship. Steve knew the boy Bucky had been, the kid who just wanted to play baseball and invent something amazing that would help people.

But the Wakandans didn’t know that part. They knew first-hand what he was capable of _now_. Even if he hadn’t actually done it, he’d been accused of it and T’Challa had almost killed him for it, which said something about his reputation. Yet they accepted him, helped him, befriended him, let him play with their freakin’ _kids_.

He released a long sigh, remembering something Shuri would mutter under her breath sometimes. _What_ is _my life?_ Well there was a word to describe this part of it: beautiful.

Dessert was not a normal part of an African meal, but they had it that night; apple cake and ginger cookies. Steve didn’t know where to look when the server set the cake in front of him, and Shuri led them all in a hilarious ragged version of ‘Happy Birthday’, which Buck had taught the kids. He ended up just staring at Bucky, muttering equal threats and thanks, which only Bucky could catch.

Mabhuti climbed into Steve’s lap, ate a few mouthfuls, and suddenly fell asleep. Buck thought he remembered his sisters doing the same thing, and was inclined to laugh at Steve’s momentary panic, and his awkward movements as he tried to eat without disturbing the child, before he realized Mabhuti was out for good.

Yep, beautiful.

***

Steve and Bucky were invited to stay for a couple drinks with T’Challa, which turned into several drinks, since none of them could get drunk. It was sundown by the time they took their leave, with promises to host the royals for a return dinner party sometime soon.

Both men were silent as they swooped through the city, heading for the ‘outside’. The view was breathtaking, as the last of the sun’s rays warmed the countless buildings, which Bucky always thought looked as much like something from Bible-times as the future. The Wakandans ability to combine tradition and technology, which of course was tradition to them, was just another of their admirable traits.

Once outside the dome, Steve asked their driver (or was that ‘flyer’? Buck was never sure) to stop. The man looked at them in surprise, but did as they requested. “You are going to walk?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “It’s a nice night.”

 _“Enkosi kakhulu,”_ Steve said.

 _“Enkosi,”_ Buck echoed.

 _“Ndiyayonwabela,”_ he replied, with a nod and a smile, as they jumped to the ground, then banked the hover-craft in a sharp U-turn and sped away.

“They’re so quiet,” Steve mused, as the two men started to walk, Bucky’s internal compass reminding him which way.

“Howard Stark would be jealous. I’d bet they had that tech here all the way back then.”

Steve laughed. “You remember that?”

“How could I forget? It was the last time– The last day of us being… I don’t know, normal?”

“Come a long way since then. Those were good days, weren’t they?” Steve sounded wistful, Bucky could see his little smile. “Not all of them, but a lot of them.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Yeah, they were.” He felt a sudden pang, picturing the two young men they had been. He of the perfectly parted hair and gleaming grin, dashing style. And Steve, small, skinny Steve, with a fire in his belly, and a soft, funny side that so few people got to see. They were so far from that now.

Steve stopped, turned to him suddenly. “If you could go back–”

“I thought we didn’t ask ‘what if’.”

Steve didn’t seem to notice. “–would you do it again? Join the army, and… follow me?”

Bucky opened his mouth, and hesitated, looking away out toward the horizon.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Buck, I shouldn’t ask that. Stupid question. Sorry–” He stopped as Bucky looked back at him.

“Fight for my country? Fight for you? Of course. Fall off a train, get captured by Russians, and turned into a killing machine? Not so much.”

Steve’s face…

Bucky plowed on. “But if I had to fall to save you, I would. It’s everything _after_. I don’t know. It’s strange: we don’t get to see the future, but everything we do _now_ sets up the future.” He sighed. “Most days, I can’t really believe in God anymore. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I almost see a plot. An insane sci-fi plot, of course, a lot worse than any of those radio shows. _Buck Rogers and the Twenty-fifth Century_?” A little laugh. “Here we are in the twenty-first. What are the odds?

“Look, maybe our parents were right. Maybe we will understand it all someday. I don’t know. All I know is: I want to… remember the good, and… try to make up for the bad.”

Steve had turned away, staring out across the miles of thick grass and stubby trees, now veiled in twilight shadows. “You think about it that much?” _Enough to have it all come out in a speech?_

Bucky shrugged. “Just another thing to keep me awake nights.” He saw Steve’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, saw the way he was pinching his lips together. He sighed, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Stevie…”

They stood for a while, Steve’s face pressed into Bucky’s neck, his grip so tight it was hard for Buck to breathe. But he was just glad his brother wasn’t afraid to let him see the hurt as well as the hope.

Steve mumbled something, and Buck shifted. “Huh?”

Steve straightened, pulled away. “I’d miss you,” he said softly. “If you weren’t here.”

“Yeah. I’m glad you made it this far, too.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Steve’s lips. “Changing isn’t always a bad thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky hooked his arm around Steve’s neck, pulled him back in, and they hugged like they did that long ago night.

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.” A long sigh. “I’m proud of you, Buck. Really proud.”

Something in Steve’s voice sent a hot wave of emotion through Bucky. He didn’t dare look in Steve’s face, and tightened his grip, resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s hand moved to rub up and down Bucky’s back, a soothing rhythm.

“When we were wrestling this morning, I suddenly remembered… and for a second I was scared I’d, I don’t know, hurt you. Considering where you used to be. You’ve come so far.” He gently pulled away, then when Bucky didn’t look at him, he ducked his head to meet his gaze.

“You should know, I’m _proud_ you’re my friend.”

Bucky seriously couldn’t decide if he should punch Steve or hug Steve for making him cry.

***

Steve knew he had a stupid grin on his face, as Bucky turned away and started walking again. “Let’s see how proud you are when I beat you home.” He bolted into a dead run.

“Hey!” Steve blurted, half-laughing, before he sprang after his friend. It took him a few strides, but when he caught up to Bucky they ran side-by-side, pushing each other to their limits.

It was the first time Steve had run with his friend, since… Well, the chase in Bucharest didn’t count. So, he basically had _never_ done this: run for the pleasure of it, with someone matching his every step. The scent of crushed vegetation carried on the warm, dry breeze that washed over his face; he could hear Bucky’s breathing beside him.

In a few minutes they slowed to a steady run, the sort of pace they could keep up for hours. With each step Steve could feel his heart pounding, every beat exploding with joy.

_Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._

This was BUCKY he was running with, BUCKY. He was happy, he was whole, he was _here._ Steve felt as if he would burst with the exaltation pouring through his veins.

He glanced sideways, trying to gauge Buck’s feelings, and found the other man looking back, his own face split by a brilliant smile.

They said nothing, there was nothing _to_ say.

They ran on, shoulder to shoulder, into the dark.

 

_And if you’ll take my hand,_   
_Please pull me from the dark,_   
_And show me hope again._   
_We’ll run side-by-side,_   
_No secrets left to hide,_   
_Sheltered from the pain._

_-‘So Far’ by Ólafur Arnalds_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Ndiyayonwabela_ : My pleasure.
> 
> That ended up being much more cheerful than I expected, but it was also kind of filler because I was working on two projects at once, and happy stuff is easier for me to write :) Sorry it's shorter.  
> I highly recommend the YouTube video of that song, 'steve & bucky pull me from the dark'. It is the most beautiful, heartbreaking Steve & Bucky music video out there.


	5. Angel By Your Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This was hard to write, mentally, emotionally, and time wise. I don't consider any of this graphic, but there's plenty of pain and angst here.  
> Canon-typical descriptions of torture.

_Cold, damp concrete floor under him, lying at their feet like a dog; a bad dog, dragged home by its leash. Dirty, tired. A hand slapped across his face above the mask; he could taste sweat, smell blood, the fear and agony of it. “Dummkopf,” a voice hissed. Something was wrong with his left knee; he tried to straighten it… NO. It rebelled violently, and he froze, trying to suck in enough air._

_A moan escaped his lips, which his brain immediately recognized as a mistake._

_A sharp command, and a man stepped forward, raised the iron bar he held. Instinctively Bucky (no, he was the Asset. Right?) threw up one arm; his flesh and blood arm, since he was lying on his left side._

_A sickening crunch. The fire flooding through his body. The sharp voices with their taunts:_ “Bespoleznyy. Skol’ko raz nam prikhoditsya yego lomat’?” _Useless. How many times do we have to break him?_

_“Put him away.”_

_Hands, hard, pinching, under his arms. His legs dragged, painfully stretching his knee. His face was wet with sweat and… something else. They let him drop, jostling his now-broken arm horribly._

_The clang of the cell door. “Chew on that for a while,” came the guard’s mocking voice. “Cry and I’ll do it again,” he added._

The Asset does not show pain, the Asset does not–

_“Steve.” His lips formed the word, hardly conscious of the action. “Steve.”_

“Buck. Bucky, I’m here.”

The voice was clear, loud. He blinked in the darkness, realized he was wrapped in... a blanket? A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked away, rolling over once and struggling to free himself. If they were going to kill him, he’d go down fighting. He wasn’t going back, didn’t _want_ to go back, didn’t want to fight and kill he was so _sick_ of fighting…

He stilled, and a thin anguished sound escaped his lips, before his brain formed a coherent thought. “Please–” he gasped.

“Bucky, _Bucky_. It’s okay. Just–”

The darkness was scattered by a white glow, and he turned his head to the left. The light was between him and the other person, shining full on their face…

“Steve?”

The other man’s shoulders dropped, as he let out the breath he’d been holding, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Bucky gave a low groan, and sat up, covering his face with his hand. He snapped his eyes open again, shuddering. The images still lurked too close to the surface.

“Bucky. Everything’s okay. I’m right here. S’okay.” Steve’s voice was so gentle, caring, like cool water on burned skin. “Just breathe.”

 _Breathe._ In, _2, 3, 4._ Out, _2, 3, 4._ In, _2, 3, 4, 5._ Out, _2, 3, 4, 5._ He concentrated, counting as high as he could each time, until he was counting slowed down heartbeats.

“Just breathe, Buck. Just breathe.”

Bucky was more or less himself again. He’d gotten used to handling these nightmares by himself, thanks to Dr. Lin’s coaching. Steve had seen a lot worse, but probably, like Bucky, he’d hoped, without knowing it, that maybe the terrors of night would be gone too. “Crap,” he muttered, voice cracking. He rubbed his hand over his face, struggling between the emotions threatening to break, and his responsibility to take care of Steve. “Did I hurt you?”

A startled little noise from Steve. “No!”

Bucky flinched, knew it, couldn’t help it, and Steve’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “You just… called my name, and I… I’m here, Buck.”

Finally, Buck turned to look at his friend. In the light from Steve’s phone, most of the blue was washed out, but Buck could see it well enough in the gloss of unshed tears. One side of Steve’s mouth quirked up, and he shifted from kneeling to sitting cross-legged, his motions carefully controlled and telegraphed.

It always amazed Buck how a man that big, that powerful could move so easily, with such restraint. It was like his brain and heart had always just been waiting for his body to catch up. He sat easily, but with a tension in his shoulders that probably no one but Buck would notice.

Steve watched him back, waiting. Bucky wished he’d touch him again, squeeze his shoulder like he always did. He could feel the adrenaline fading; the ‘crash’ usually came hard. Tears prickled at the backs of his eyes, and he tried to suck in a deep breath, to get control. It was a lot shakier than he’d intended.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, Stevie, I’m…” He meant to say ‘fine’, but the word went sideways to lodge in his throat. He swayed, suddenly exhausted, and Steve caught him. He kept his hand on Bucky’s side, right beneath the remains of his left arm, as he scooted around to sit beside him. Then he let Bucky slump against his side, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

Bucky closed his eyes, let his head fall against Steve’s shoulder, a seam of his undershirt pressing against Bucky’s cheek. He shifted, then settled again, Steve’s warmth beginning to soak in. He listened to Steve’s heart beating, the powerful, steady throb; his even breathing. The knot in Bucky’s chest eased, and he sniffed.

“Was it a memory? Or mostly dream?” The words vibrated against Bucky’s ear.

“Do I have to?” His own voice was rough and wearied.

“No. You never _have_ to. Just thought it might help.”

The sensations came back; still clear, but held at arm’s length, Steve’s presence like a shield. “Flashback, I guess. Too normal for a dream. Must have been early in my… training. Did something wrong. They broke my arm. Left me to set it myself. Had to… well, _re_ locate my knee too. That was easier.” He swallowed hard, almost tasting the bile that had risen in his throat, the hot salt tears on his lips, though the fear had been enough to keep him from making a sound. “Next day they gave me some stuff, injected right in my arm. It was healed enough the day after that. I don’t know if they meant to break my ribs, or they knew I would put up my arm.”

“Try to protect yourself.” He could tell Steve didn’t know he had spoken. The hand on Bucky’s upper right arm tightened painfully and he twitched; instantly it eased.

Bucky could feel the anger and pain thrumming through Steve, and he gave a little sigh. Gently butted the side of his head against his friend’s chest. “Stevie…”

“I should have been there.” Steve’s voice cracked. “Should have protected you from–”

“No.” Without looking, Bucky reached up to put his hand over Steve’s mouth. Steve pulled his head away, making a little noise of protest, but he stopped talking. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“That can’t be enough.”

“It is for me.”

Quiet fell again, each taking the silent comfort offered by the other. Steve rested his cheek on top of Bucky’s head, his body relaxing again, and Bucky finally yielded to the demands of sleep. Steve was so nice and warm, like a giant hot water bottle.

He mumbled something, let the peaceful darkness close over his head.

***

Bucky woke with his head pillowed on Steve’s stomach, his friend’s hint of a snore sounding loud in his ear. Steve was slumped over backwards, but his right arm was still draped over him, and Bucky decided not to move just yet.

His head felt thick, his mind sluggish, but that was normal after a bad night. He could taste a bad case of morning mouth, and was suddenly reminded of something. Waking up with a hangover… Why had he gotten drunk? He couldn’t remember that, but he could see Steve fussing over him and giving him a cold soda with his breakfast in bed, while calling him any number of names. Why had Steve stayed home? _“You’re just lucky I wasn’t finished with the last poster and knew it wasn’t John Dillinger trying to break in. Not that we have enough money to interest any self-respectin’ gangster.”_

Bucky smiled. How could scrimping for every dollar and taking care of Steve sound _fun_? Well, he was still taking care of Steve. It was actually nice to know Steve still needed him, as much as he needed Steve. He still remembered his disbelief when Steve had said that. Yeah, he should have known better. Steve never lied. At least, not to him.

Bucky smiled. “Punk,” he whispered.

He could tell by the light that the sun was up, heard the faint sound of a man singing, goats bleating. Goats! He rolled onto his other side and pushed himself up. He was now staring down at Steve’s face, as the other man stirred, and blinked awake.

“Hey.”

“Hey, pal.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.” He mussed Steve’s hair, and scrambled to his feet. “Thanks to you.” He caught the gleam of Steve’s smile, before he turned away.

He slipped out to check on the flock, do a headcount, make sure nobody had keeled over in the night. The children did not appear, so he returned to the hut to wash and dress.

Steve, still in his undershirt and sweatpants, had found the coffee grinder, and was mumbling under his breath about ‘uncivilized geniuses’ and how ‘even Stark has a coffee machine’.

Bucky decided not to let his smile falter, and stepped around the dividing wall into the back room. “You used to hate that stuff, you know,” he called over his shoulder. _Oh, yeah, he did._

“I grew up,” Steve answered.

Bucky smirked at seeing Steve’s bed neatly made, all regulation, and he had a snapshot of ducking into the tent, Steve tying his boots and giving Bucky a disapproving look, nodding at his sergeant’s messy cot.

He kicked his blankets onto his sleeping mat, and paused to look around the room, the hodgepodge of furniture he’d either been given or made himself: a simple desk and chair, a collection of comfortable pillows, the bookshelves, the little chest of drawers. Funny where a city boy could end up.

It reminded him of his apartment in Budapest, its simplicity—until he looked at Steve’s bed, or the sketch of his mother on the wall. How? How had he stayed away from Steve for so long?

Curled up between plastic wrapped bales of– he couldn’t remember what, hoping he wouldn’t get seasick like the last time he’d crossed the Atlantic… He knew, without actually remembering, that would have been when he shipped out with the Army. He had left Steve behind that time too, he knew. No, he remembered.

In his jumbled mind he’d thought that he had to leave Steve behind because he was too small, too sickly. But that was wrong. He was strong, he could fight. He was looking for Bucky, and Bucky had to leave. He had to find the answers, figure out who he was on his own. Steve wanted his old friend back, and Bucky couldn’t give him that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Bucky pulled the hand towel away from his face, and stared into the mirror over the washstand. Steel blue eyes, rough brown beard, the lines around his mouth, the ones in his forehead that somehow never made it into Steve’s sketches.

And yet, he probably wouldn’t be _here_ if Zemo hadn’t bombed the UN, and T’Challa hadn’t come after him, and ended up saving both his and Steve’s skins. Ugh, he wasn’t going down that rabbit trail again.

Steve had the fire stirred up, and the kettle set on to boil, before he came back in to change. “Save some for me,” Bucky said as he passed, heading out to feed his animals.

“Sure, farm boy.”

“Punk,” Bucky called back.

“Jerk!”

He was down on his knees, scratching noses and dolling out handfuls of sweet grain, when a familiar voice called his name.

“Bucky. _Molweni ekuseni.”_

“ _Molweni ekuseni,”_ Bucky called back.

The older man moved into his line of vision and leaned on the fence. He was wearing a loose tunic-like shirt and pants in the dark blue and burnt orange of the Merchants, his home tribe.

“Hey.”

Dr. Dal nodded back. “How are the animals settling in?”

“Good, so far.” He straightened slowly, made his way toward the gate, the goats following him closely. Already he liked them the most. “I’ll have to cut-and-carry for at least a couple days, ‘til they know this is home. Then I can start letting them out to graze.”

Outside, he rubbed his hand on the fabric of his own robe, the first thing he’d found in the drawer this morning, and shook Dr. Dal’s hand. His grip belied the grey hair and lines in his face, and though he was not a big man—his head came up to Bucky’s shoulder—there was a kind of strength in his very presence, the way he carried himself.

His piercing eyes roved over Bucky’s face, and he smiled now. “From one to a hundred-?”

“A hun–”

His hand came up. “No. Think for a minute.” He turned and Bucky fell in beside him, walking back to the hut.

Bucky breathed deep, once, twice. Let himself actually think. The cloud of the night still lingered, along with something he couldn’t quite pin down. “Nine– eighty… seven.” He could see Steve ahead, squatting by the fire, pouring coffee into two mugs, jumping up and ducking inside, coming back with a third mug.

“Doctor Dal,” the blond man called, coming forward, hand outstretched.

“Steven. It is good to see you. You are well?”

“Can’t complain.” Steve gave Bucky a little smile. “Coffee’s from Yuty, the town we were staying in. Good stuff.”

“I will have to judge,” Dr. Dal said. The man was something of a coffee ‘collector’, and enjoyed critiquing the taste of every cup of the stuff. He knew that it had zero effect on the supersoldiers, but they liked the taste, and he and Steve sometimes shared opinions.

Dr. Dal sat cross-legged on the ground, before Bucky could ask if he wanted a chair or something more… respectable, and the others followed his lead.

The village was waking, people calling, women coming and going with water pots, a teenage boy driving some goats off to the east. Bucky could hear a group singing, probably children; perhaps the kids were busy doing something, kinda like school.

Bucky sipped the hot stuff—he and Steve had always taken black, just like Aunt Sarah made it. He realized now that she had probably just been saving sugar for more important things, like gingerbread. Bucky was pretty sure he remembered the first taste he’d snuck from the pot; even if it was black, she had beat even his own mother at making coffee.

“Bright,” Dr. Dal said. “Sunshine.” He took another mouthful, savouring it. “How have you slept?” he asked suddenly, turning to Bucky.

Bucky had been waiting for the question, but he felt Steve, on his right, go tense. “Bad one last night.” He took another drink, swallowed hurriedly. “But good, really good the last couple nights. Really good day yesterday. Don’t know why–” He shrugged, stared into his coffee. “Steve made it easier. Way easier.”

He heard Steve give a faint huff, but didn’t have time to analyze its meaning.

“Flashback or dream?”

“Definitely flashback. We did talk about it.” There was a hint of forced calm in Steve’s voice. “You fellows want any breakfast?” he added, getting up, twirling his empty mug in his hands.

“You don’t have to–” Bucky started.

“Sure I do,” the other man replied, moving back to the hut.

“Thanks, punk.” Bucky called after him.

“Anytime.”

***

Steve moved slowly, fetching and mixing a sort of sweet porridge from the selection on Bucky’s shelves. They would have to make a trip to the market in the next couple days… He caught himself. Would he be here in a couple days? He was actually surprised his phone hadn’t rung with an urgent message from Sam.

He’d almost been able to forget about the world outside that needed him, until he was sharply reminded that his best friend _had_ needed him. And he hadn’t been there.

“He thinks he’s responsible for me.”

Steve turned his head slightly, catching Bucky’s words outside.

“He is.” Bucky made a noise, but Dr. Dal kept going. “The only reason your friendship has lasted, is because you each care for the other, more than you care for yourselves.”

“Of course I’m supposed to take care of him. That’s always the way it was when we were kids. He needed _someone_ to make sure he made it through a school year without getting killed by a bully.”

“But why did you stay his friend?”

Steve stilled, spoon buried in the large wooden bowl. He wished he could see Bucky’s face.

“I don’t know. He was just…” Long silence. “He’s my brother. The only one I ever had. And I said I’d be with him. To the end of the line.”

“And he said the same to you.”

Steve thought he actually heard Bucky swallow.

“Yeah. Yeah he did.”

“And I meant it.”

Bucky’s head turned, and for a moment he looked startled to see Steve in the doorway of his hut, as if he’d forgotten his friend was actually around. Then the surprise melted to a sheepish uncertainty.

“Every word,” Steve added, and a lump swelled in his throat, as he met those clear dark blue eyes that had watched over him for so long.

Bucky looked away, and Steve remembered the taste of blood, his face on fire, a metal fist raised above him… No, just Bucky kneeling beside him, helping him sit up: _“You’re the biggest idiot in New York, know that?”_

He blinked and the boy’s face melted into the man’s. A crooked little smile creased through the beard, and Bucky held his gaze. “Yeah. I know.”

***

It was long after dark, probably closing in on midnight. Bucky lay awake, staring into the darkness. It was always like this the night after a bad one. Flashback, nightmare, bad memory, whatever. He was afraid, of course. Afraid of where sleep could take him.

He hadn’t had very many in the last couple weeks, but they’d been just a little more… violent, a little more vivid when they did come. They also seemed to be more about what HYDRA had done to _him_ than what he’d done to others. Not that he preferred one kind of memory over the other.

He groaned inwardly, and tried to still his thoughts, focus on something else.

It had been a decent day. Steve was quieter than he had been, and the children had been gone all day, only stopping by right before supper to tell as quickly as they could about their time with the elders.

He and Steve had climbed the hill to watch the sunset, and watch a huge flock of cranes fly by. 

Bucky turned over again.

Far away he thought he heard a lion roar, or maybe a panther; one of those big cats anyway. He’d been surprised to learn they could all roar to some extent, until someone explained that that was basically the big cats’ _meow_.

A night wind sighed through the grass and trees.

Across the room he heard Steve’s breathing, heavy and quick, the rustling of sheets as he moved. “Steve?” Bucky whispered. “You awake?”

A soft moan, a mumble that might have been his name. He sat up. “Steve?”

Nothing but quieter breathing.

Still, Buck had an uneasy feeling, and he tossed his blanket aside. Carefully he stole across the dirt floor, crouched by his sleeping friend. “Steve?” he asked again, a little louder this time, and laying his hand on the other man’s arm.

Steve was awake at once, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Wha-?” He cleared his throat. “Buck?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You… okay?” He heard Steve take a quick breath, which escaped in a soft groan; the sound stabbed at Bucky’s heart.

“Yeah, just… a dream.” The blankets rustled as he settled back down. “Go back to sleep, Buck. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“No.” Bucky sat on the ground, then turned and scooted back until he could lean against the wall. “You make me talk, I’m gonna make you talk.”

There was a long silence, except for their breathing. Steve was on Bucky’s left side, his head somewhere near Buck’s knee. Bucky stretched his legs out, settled back.

It was Dr. Dal who had practically forced them to talk about this, to talk about talking. It had always been easy when they were kids, even when they were young men. It was after Krausburg that things changed for Bucky. The pain and horror of his time there wasn’t something he wanted to recall, even when he woke up from another nightmare crying in Steve’s arms. Other than the official report to Colonel Philips, which Steve had been present for, Bucky said nothing, and Steve didn’t force him. Most of the time they were just too busy.

70 years later, _everything_ had changed. He had done too much, seen too much, been through—been a part of—Hell itself. Steve was a legend, a tower of strength and courage and _perfection_. He kept any burdens buried deep, while Bucky saw those burdens and shrank from adding to them. There were a lot of things they just avoided, until their therapists (professional and amateur) unearthed them.

During a particularly rough week back in March, during a Skype call, an already awkward conversation had cut through to hit a raw nerve, and Bucky had reacted in the only way he knew: lash out, until someone shut him down. He hadn't physically hurt anyone, but unfortunately his enhanced memory would never let him forget Steve’s face.

It had been a week of cold fear, and bitter regret, and self-enforced silence, except for the voices clamoring in his head: _You’ve done it now. He knows you’ll never be normal again. You hurt him, and you know it. You said what you knew would hurt him the most. Friends don’t do that. He’ll give up on you now._

And then Steve walked in, grimy and exhausted from a mission, and Bucky remembered freezing next to the counter, for one moment prepared to run, until Steve looked at him with tears in his eyes and said his name: “Bucky.”

He had known it then, as Steve held him like he’d never let go, seen with perfect clarity. He could never drive Steve away, because Steve needed him. Maybe as much as he needed Steve.

After that they were both willing to do whatever Dr. Dal and Dr. Lin (and Sam) asked of them.

It was simple really. Steve was strong enough to be there for Bucky, and Steve needed to let Bucky be there for him. And they both needed to remember that the other wasn’t alone either.

But sometimes you did need to stay quiet. He really hoped telling Steve about that flashback last night hadn’t been a mistake.

A louder exhalation from Steve pulled Buck out of his thoughts, and he heard his friend shifting again. “I dreamt they- they had you again…”

Bucky closed his eyes, knowing instantly... He could almost hear Steve clenching his jaw.

“The- that scar on your back. The one under your right shoulder. How–” His voice dried up, and Bucky could hear his breathing quicken. He knew the one Steve meant, and shrugged his good shoulder, feeling the mud wall rub against it.

_RED, HEAT, PAIN, searing through his nerves, leaving them withered and lifeless, rushing to his brain, exploding in–_

He took a slow breath, let it out. “It hurt. That’s all I remember.” He shrugged again. “’M glad I don’t remember.”

He made out Steve’s shape as he sat up suddenly. “It scarred. You have scars. I hardly–”

“It _was_ a knock-off serum.”

Steve made a noise like he’d been hit.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“For what?”

“For making you–”

“I ask because I want to know. But that doesn’t… make it hurt any less.”

“They did worse.”

Dead silence, except for Steve’s ragged breathing. Bucky suddenly pushed himself away from the wall, stood, stepped behind Steve, and sat on his other side, so he could wrap his arm around the other man’s shoulders.

How could he possibly explain to Steve that it wasn’t his fault? That Steve being here _now_ meant more even than his being there _then_ could have? He knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Steve accepted him for who he was. Scars and all.

It was just so hard for Steve to picture people doing things like that to anyone, let alone Buck. War was one thing. Torture and abuse and cruelty were another.

“They hurt you, too.”

Steve had been sitting quite still, staring straight ahead, but that got a reaction from him. Bucky forged on. “I should have been there for you. When they hauled you out of the ice and you found out everybody was pretty much dead and you had aliens and some crazy god from outer space trying to kill you. When I tried to kill you–”

Now it was Steve’s turn to stop him. “Don’t, Buck. Don’t go there.” He stood suddenly, tall and powerful, his light skin making him all the more visible in the darkness. There was his Captain America voice. “HYDRA did that, HYDRA did it all.” He stopped and Bucky slowly stood too; laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Hot anger radiated off him, and Bucky took a deep breath.

“So if I couldn’t control what happened,” he said slowly, “neither could you.”

“I could have gone after you.”

“I was dead,” Bucky said simply. “I knew I was going to die, and I should have died. Neither of us expected anything different.”

“But–”

“Stop. Stevie, stop it.” He caught the other man’s shoulder, held him still. “It _happened._ Look, I-I don’t want you to pretend anything for my sake. But you need to let this go. It’s all in the past. There’s nothing we can do about it now. All we can do is deal with what happens _now_. You can’t… waste _now_ , thinking about the past.”

Steve kept his head down, quiet now, waiting and Bucky let his voice, and his grip, soften. Cupped his hand now around the back of Steve's neck and leaned forward enough to touch their foreheads together; a familiar gesture.  _“You saved my life, Steve._ I mean it. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t found me, called my name…” Bucky had to clear his throat. “You gave up everything for me, way more than I deserve. Because of you, I have a life again. You need to stop blaming yourself for something that’s _not your fault.”_

Steve finally spoke, his voice hoarse and uneven. “But you blame yourself for what you did.”

Buck took a slow breath. “Because I want to make it right, as far as I possibly can.”

“So… if I want to make something right–”

Bucky laughed. He couldn’t help it. He laughed again, and then choked off on a half-sob. “Oh, Stevie.” With no hesitation he pulled Steve into a close embrace, arm firm across his back. “Just be here,” he whispered in his friend’s ear. “As long as you can. And if you can’t, just call me. And if you can’t call, well, just… remember me.”

He felt Steve sag against him, letting his arms settle around Buck’s waist, and resting the side of his head against Buck’s. “That’s all?”

“That’s more than I deserve.”

Steve gave a half-laugh, half-sob. “Buckyyy.”

“Punk.”

“You jerk.” Steve was crying again.

“Sap,” Bucky murmured.

They stood in the darkness, holding on to each other. Steve's heart beat against his own chest, Steve's warm, wet face nestled against his neck; Bucky felt a couple tears slip down his own cheeks. He had a sudden sense of déjà vu; a memory of holding Steve while he wept against Bucky’s chest, and at the same time Steve holding him while he struggled to breathe through the tears.

Wasn’t that how it had always been? They might not be able to take the burdens away, but they could share the weight.

“I’m with you to the end of the line, pal,” Bucky whispered.

“Yeah,” Steve choked out. “To the end of the line.”

 

 _I’ll be the angel by your side_  
_I will get you through the night_  
_I’ll be the strength you can’t provide on your own_  
_‘Cause when you’re down and out of time_  
_And you think you’ve lost the fight_  
_Let me be the angel_  
_The angel by your side_

_-‘Angel By Your Side’ by Francesca Battistelli_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian:  
>  _Bespoleznyy. Skol’ko raz nam prikhoditsya yego lomat’? :_ Useless. How many times do we have to break him? (That’s the Russian translation of the English anyway. But when you translate the Russian back into English on Google it comes out as: ‘Useless. How many times do we have to break it?’ Ugh. Wow.)  
>  Xhosa:  
>  _Molweni ekuseni:_ Good morning.
> 
> I really struggled with parts of this, so please be kind. There's a lot of psychological stuff I am just skimming the surface of, since research and Wikipedia can only walk me through so much. Add to that the ambiguity surrounding the creation and training of the Winter Soldier, and I just have to make up stuff and fly off of what other people have conjectured. I owe Griselda_Banks big time, along with other writers around here.  
> I hope this isn't too messy or inconsistent. Life is not giving me much time to breathe, and I am trying hard not to let my writing suffer.  
> Thanks for reading anyway.  
> Kind words go a long way too.


	6. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Is anyone else crying over that trailer? Watching it was my reward for finishing writing this. Some reward. ;A; And yet _Dum spiro, spero._ Sigh.  
>  I am posting early again, because I can. If you haven't read the last chapter in the last three or four days, I recommend doing that first. I rewrote a few things.

_“Ready or not, here I come!”_

_Steve’s voice echoed in the empty hall, and Bucky scrunched further against the wall. He had his mother to look out for as well. She would probably whip him if she found him huddled on top of the ice box._

_Across the hall in the living room, he heard Becca squealing, Steve laughing, “You gotta hide somewhere better than that.”_

_“I gave Rachel the best spot.” Bucky could just see her clapping her hand over her mouth, horrified that she’d given her friend away._

_Bucky might have grudged entertaining his little sister and her friend, while their mothers did spring cleaning. But Steve had come over too, and he had cheerfully agreed, and Bucky couldn’t look like a mean big brother._

_He shifted as quietly as possible, easing over onto his side, and curling up. The lower he was, the less chance of Steve seeing him._

_The whooping and giggling, in the other room, continued for a while, Steve teasing Becca for Rachel’s hiding place. Upstairs, somewhere, Bucky could hear furniture being dragged across the floor, and his mother singing: “Life is not a highway strewn with flowers. Still it holds a goodly share of bliss…”_

_Rachel’s mother joined in: “When the sun gives way to April showers, here’s the point you should never miss.”_

_Bucky loved hearing his mother sing. He was too old to get sung to sleep now, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening across the hall from Becca’s room._

_The women had finished singing ‘April Showers’, by the time he heard the squeals of Rachel, coming from the dining room. He wondered where she had been found. Maybe the china cupboard, with that big space near the floor. Mama would whip ‘em all if she found them. Well, Becca would get a spanking. Rachel would probably get one from her mother too._

_Bucky hoped Steve would find him before Mama._

_In the end neither did. Bucky slithered off the top of the icebox, landing on the kitchen floor and scaring the girls out of their wits. Steve only turned from the cookie jar, holding two cookies instead of one. “Here.” He tossed one to his friend, a laughing spark in his eyes._

_Bucky caught the oatmeal cookie, and stuck his tongue out._

Bucky glanced up at another burst of laughter, and smiled at the half-dozen children chasing each other through the tall grass, closer to the trees.

 _“Ingaba ulungile?”_ one of the men called off to his left.

 _“Ewe,”_ Bucky called back.

Jongikhaya nodded, and both men bent back to their work.

The rhythm was almost hypnotic, _bend, sweep, step, bend, sweep, step,_ watching the blade of his scythe passing through the grass, and the grass falling gracefully behind it.

He remembered another time they had been playing hide-and-seek, out at the cousin’s farm.

_“Steve! Steve!”_

_The other kids had given up hunting and headed into the house for cool drinks. “He’ll come out and rub it in our faces over supper,” Rueben said._

_But Bucky was beginning to get worried. Steve wasn’t stupid, but he could be too brave for his own good. So he stayed outside, hunting through the apple orchard, around by the creek, up by the tree house… As long as they stayed out of the animal pens—by order of the grownups—the kids had no boundaries to their games. They could spend an entire afternoon on one round of ‘Man-hunt’ as his cousin’s called it._

_“Steve! Steve!”_

_Bucky was hunting through the bank barn, when the bell began to ring for supper, and he suddenly gulped back a massive lump in his throat. He had a sudden vision of Steve, hiding somewhere tucked away, and having an asthma attack, and not being able to breathe, and not wanting to give himself away, because Steve was stupid like that, and maybe_ not breathing at all– _A vision of Mrs. Anderson lying in the street outside his house, someone screaming, “She’s not breathing! Call an ambulance!”_

_There was something burning in his eyes, and he suddenly dropped down on his knees next to the plow, and clasped his hands. “Oh, God, please let me find him. Please let me find Steve.”_

_He tipped his head back, blinked away the blurry wetness, stared up… And then was on his feet, startling one of the horses in its stall, scrambling for the ladder to the hayloft._

_“Steve!” he hollered. “Steve!”_

_He stood for a moment in the shadowy sweet-smelling loft, the only sound his raspy breathing. He tried to quiet it, to listen…_

Ruff, ruff.

_Bucky spun, stared up at the little collie pup—what did they call him?—standing at the top of a heap of hay. A flushed, sleepy face, topped with tousled yellow hair, appeared next to the pup._

_“Buck?” He smothered a yawn, and rubbed his eyes. “Gosh, what time is it?”_

_Bucky couldn’t breathe properly for a minute. Steve rolled over the edge and slid down the pile, then paused, staring at Bucky. “Are you okay?”_

_“Yeah–” The red-and-white pup came to sniff around his feet, and he crouched to fondle its ears, glad for the chance to hide his face. “Supper time. Lookin’ for you. Couldn’t find you. Got scared.”_

_“Oh.” Steve was silent for a minute, brushing hay from his clothes. “Sorry. Guess I fell asleep. Brought Captain here up with me, he seemed so lonely with all the others being sold.” He scooped up the pup, and offered Bucky an apologetic grin. “Hungry?”_

_“Yeah.” Bucky found a smile forming on his lips. He followed Steve down the ladder, then stepped up beside his friend to throw an arm around his neck, and wrestle him into a headlock. Steve yelped and tried to fight him off without hurting Captain. Still grappling, they made their way toward the house._

_“Steve! Bucky!” Mother was standing on the front porch calling, when she spotted them. “Hurry up or we’ll start without you!”_

_Steve set Captain down. “Come on. Race you to the house!”_

_Even then Bucky knew better than to_ let _Steve win. The younger boy came panting up behind him as he pushed open the screen door. “One of these days I’ll catch you,” Steve declared._

***

Steve lay flat on his back in the grass, eyes closed against the sunshine, a small boy and a green lizard sprawled across his chest. Both were asleep, well, Mabhuti was. He didn’t actually know if lizards slept.

The warm weight of the child, his soft, deep breathing… Steve had a vision of falling asleep, sprawled half on top of Bucky, listening to the steady rhythm of Buck’s heartbeat.

_Bucky._

Steve was glad for a little time alone. He had accompanied Buck and the five other men and women, going to cut grass for the fenced-in animals, but Mabhuti had tired quickly, and Steve had volunteered to carry him back, lizard included. Even Nontasasa couldn’t tell where her brother had picked up his little friend.

But no sooner had they reached Buck’s hut at the edge of the village, when Khanyiswa came in a hurry, needing her daughter’s help with something. So Steve and Mabhuti had hunted up something to eat, before the little kid passed out on top of him.

Steve rested one hand on Mabhuti’s back, let the warmth of the sun and air and earth wrap around him. He never did this. He was always in action, or itching for it, even when he was a kid. Even art was a kind of exercise. This was rare, to just lie here, letting himself think, taking up thoughts, turning them over, finding their places.

Strange how that could work. There was a fact he’d had for a long time, something he’d told himself, something others had told him, over and over. But it took Bucky’s presence, Bucky’s words to make it solid, real, and to let him _accept_ it.

That morning Steve had been sitting on the chair, tying his boots, Bucky brushing his teeth, both of them quiet, subdued. They’d actually slept, after their late night heart-to-heart; an embarrassing childlike part of Steve hanging onto Bucky’s hand, _the one he’d missed,_ until consciousness faded.

Bucky was rinsing his toothbrush when he spoke. “Remember, Steve? ‘We can never be what we once were…’”

Steve looked up. “’…but we can become better than we are now,’” he finished quietly.

Bucky turned, his crooked smile beginning to work its way across his face. “Do you believe that? Both parts?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He had stood then, crossed the room in two strides, and Bucky huffed a laugh as he hugged Steve back. “Well, there’s one thing. You’ll always be a punk.”

Steve found himself smiling. “Jerk. Thanks.”

“For what?” Bucky had asked, pulling back and tousling Steve’s already combed hair.

He ducked away, but paused in the doorway to the front room, one hand on the wall. “For be’n you.” Had it been his imagination, or was that a hint of Brooklyn in his voice?

Steve opened his eyes, lifted his head enough to look down at the child, and met the unblinking stare of the foot-long lizard. “Okay, little fella,” he murmured. “Just don’t try climbing down my shirt or something.”

_“You saved my life, Steve. I mean it. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t found me, called my name… You gave up everything for me, way more than I deserve. Because of you, I have a life again. You need to stop blaming yourself for something that’s not your fault.”_

_“You caught me, Steve. When I fell you caught me. You never even let me go."_

_“Just be here. As long as you can. And if you can’t, just call me. And if you can’t call, well, just remember me.”_

_How could I_ forget _you, you idiot?_ Steve thought. _I just did what anyone would do for their best friend, brother._

He would probably always feel like it wasn’t enough. But did that matter if it wasn’t what Buck thought? To Buck, he was enough. Just him, just Steve. When he was with Buck, he _was_ just Steve. Stevie Rogers, a regular guy with hopes and dreams that he thought had died years ago.

When Bucky had fallen from the train a part of Steve’s heart had fallen with him. That hole, the aching, gnawing pain, had never disappeared, only scabbed over as months trickled into years. Then the mask fell off and the Winter Soldier looked him in the eye, and tore his heart open all over again.

He remembered how his mother’s death had broken him, and Bucky had been the one to hold him together. Then Bucky had fallen and Peggy was the only one who had really seemed to care. Or maybe she was the only one he’d let close enough. After he woke up, she had been almost his last link to everything that had been.

Steve was a soldier; he used his head, followed orders (as far as they made sense), dealt with what landed in the road, and kept walking. He had figured out his own ways of coping, his own ways of bandaging the hurts and shielding any weaknesses.

Until Bucky showed up as the Winter Soldier, SHEILD fell apart, the government had jumped on the Avengers, Peggy had died, and Bucky… he found Bucky. Bucky was half his heart, and he’d done what it took to save him.

Steve opened his eyes, and exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the image of Tony’s face. A part of him still hated himself for that, even as he knew he could have done nothing else. Bucky’s words, back at Christmas: _“I'll never blame you, Steve. No one could.”_

He let his eyes drift shut again, remembering the feel of Bucky’s arms—arm—around him, strong and gentle. That hadn’t changed. It never would. Not just holding him, but putting him back together.

And that, apparently, was what he did for Buck. All Buck needed was him. All he needed was Bucky. Together they could weather any storm, like always.

Mabhuti stirred, snuffled sleepily, sighed. A little hand patted Steve’s face and he opened his eyes, smiling into the brown face.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Mabhuti captured the lizard in both hands, and pushed himself up onto his elbows. Steve wrapped his arms around the boy, and sat up, settling him in his lap.

“Where did you get the lizard?” Steve tapped a finger on its head.

“He’s my friend.”

_“He’s my friend.”_

_“Even when I had nothing I had Bucky.”_

_“You’re my friend.”_

_“’Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”_

Steve let out his breath slowly, focussed on Mabhuti, tickling his lizard’s belly. The boy glanced over his shoulder at him.

_“Ingaba udakumbile?”_

_“Hayi._ Well, not really,” he added.

_“Ngoba?”_

“Why? I’ve lost a lot of things. I found some things too. Sometimes I remember good things, sometimes I remember bad things. And sometimes they’re all mixed up together.”

Mabhuti looked very serious, and thoughtful for a moment. _“Uyindoda elungileyo.”_ Steve frowned uncertainly, and the boy wrinkled his nose. “You so good. You _Umzalwana Weengcuka Ezimhlophe._ ” He scrambled around in Steve’s lap, until he was curled against Steve’s stomach, his head resting over Steve’s heart. He reached up to put his arm, as far as he could, around Steve’s neck. _“Ungumhlobo wam._ You’re good to  _me."_

Something in Steve’s chest swelled ‘til it threatened to burst, and he wrapped his arms around the little boy, buried his face in his thick curly hair. He took a few quick, shaky breaths, breathing in the smell of Africa. He felt the skinny little arms go around his neck, heard Mabhuti’s little giggle, and wondered if he was going to be able to hold back the tears. Seriously, how did little kids _do_ that?

Something rough tickled the back of his neck, and he shifted his grip, about to brush whatever it was away. The next moment he stiffened, jerked up into a kneeling position, almost dropping Mabhuti. “What the-?!”

Mabhuti jumped backward, hands clasped over his mouth in a futile attempt to silence his giggles, as Steve now struggled to get that dratted lizard out of his shirt. He could feel it thrashing around, working its way around toward his stomach, before he finally remembered to pull his shirt out.

The green, scaly beast dropped to the ground, and Steve took a big step back to catch his breath. Mabhuti sprang forward to grab up his pet, and held it over his head, letting his laughter ring out.

Steve stared at him, sniffed, rubbed a hand across his face. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Mabhuti just laughed louder, then chattered so fast Steve couldn't figure out what he was saying. “Should I take that as a ‘yes’?” Steve was fighting a smile, his emotions finally settling, when his cell phone rang.

***

The sun was hot on his head, and Bucky could feel sweat running down his neck. He rubbed his forearm across his forehead in a jerky motion, before resuming work. _Bend, sweep, step. Bend, sweep, step._

He heard the jet before he saw it. He stopped and straightened, watching as the Quin settled on the plain, less than a hundred yards away. He knew even before the bay door came down, and he could see Steve stepping out, jogging toward him.

Bucky met him half-way, not bothering to listen to the start of Steve’s explanation, stepping right in and pulling him into a tight hug. It was only a moment, but he put everything he had into it, hot, sweaty, and dirty as he was. He felt a momentary reluctance from Steve as he pulled back, and smiled. “Be careful.”

“I’ll try,” Steve’s voice was soft, and then he was backing up, one step and then another, eyes locked on Bucky’s.

“Go,” Bucky said, and Steve turned, jogging back to the Quin. Bucky took a deep breath. “Call if you need me!”

Steve paused, just at the ramp, and spun, his smile suddenly shining out. He snapped off a quick salute, and there was the Captain America Bucky knew. Then he was gone, the plane lifting off before the ramp was even up.

Bucky stood, twirling his scythe in his hand, watching ‘til the jet was out of sight. He felt the eyes of the others, and he turned sharply, giving them a quick wave. _“Ilungile.”_ And he was, he really was.

The sun had set into a bank of cloud, when Bucky finally shuffled into his hut. After helping him unload all his bundles of cut grass, Jongikhaya had invited Bucky to eat supper with his family, and he had been happy to oblige. Now he stood for a moment in the quiet darkness, listening for–

He gave his head a quick shake, turned to light a lamp, then paused in surprise, as the glow flooded across the table. He took a quick hard breath.

The sketchbook lay there, with a folded paper on top; he could recognize Steve’s writing. A smile tugged at his lips, before he scooped them up, and headed to get ready for bed. He would stay up late reading, like he and Steve used to do sometimes.

_Bucky_

_This is how I see you._

_I did this a while ago, the only sketch I did after I found out you were still alive. I’ve had it with me every day since. But I don’t really need it any more. I know where you are. I know you’re safe._

_Don’t know how often I’ll make it back, but I will. That’s a promise. ‘Cause I’m with you to the end of the line._

_I love you, Buck. Always will. You’re my best friend, and that’s never going to change. Whatever else does._

_Steve_

Bucky took his time, reading the note over a few times. The paper was doubled over once, but there were half-a-dozen more creases, indicating it had been folded to less than the size of his palm.

Bucky opened it face down, smoothed his hand over the back, not wanting to smear the drawing, then flipped the paper over.

A sigh escaped his lungs, and he smiled without planning to.

It was his face only: long hair, scruffy stubble, like he’d had then, eyes crinkled up at the corners, smiling just on the edge of laughing. Simple, but every line had been drawn with care, an emotional intensity that couldn’t be expressed in words.

It was probably just the fact that Bucky’s own feelings were running so close to the surface, but he could _see_ Steve working on that piece of paper, on nights when the fear and longing threatened to overwhelm him, pouring all his hope and love into something he _had_ to believe he would see again: his best friend, the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother, Bucky smiling.

 

_We’re never gonna know it all_   
_Like houses we will fall_   
_And break in stormy weather_   
_And be put back together better_

_…_

_Why’s it always darkest right before the dawn?_   
_If liars can be honest, and right can be wrong_   
_When you find a doorway, are you in or are you out?_   
_You have to stand up, before you fall down_   
_You need to get lost, before you get found_

_-‘Lost and Found’ by A Rocket to the Moon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Ingaba ulungile?_ : You okay?  
>  _Ingaba udakumbile?_ : Are you sad?  
>  _Hayi_ : No  
>  _Ngoba?_ : Why?  
>  _Uyindoda elungileyo_ : You’re a good man.  
>  _Umzalwana Weengcuka Ezimhlophe_ : Brother of the White Wolf  
>  _Ungumhlobo wam_ : You’re my friend.  
>  _Ilungile_ : It’s okay.
> 
> So I don't think I'm going to post to this story again until the new year. I am going to be insanely busy before and after Christmas, but I am hoping to get out a trio of Christmas songfics (a weakness of mine!) featuring my favourite bros, so keep an eye out! And in January I do plan to return to posting to this story every weekend.  
> Thanks for reading!


	7. I Will Be Here for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray! I'm back.  
> Sorry it took so long. I had a wonderful holiday, and hope all of you did too!  
> So this is still July, but after this time is going to start moving a little more. I'll give the general date at the start of each chapter.  
> Rewriting scenes from Way Back When in Bucky's POV is always fun. Hope you like this one.

_Bucky felt sick with guilt._

_One foot hit a patch of ice, and he fell to his hands and knees. He scrambled up again, palms stinging, but he didn’t care._

_“Steve!” he yelled. “Steve!”_

_So faint he thought it was imagining it, he heard, “Buck-eeey!”_

_“Steve!” he screamed, plunging through the snow clouds. A sloppy sound, a spray of water, and perhaps a shudder of the planks beneath his feet; something stopped him one step from the edge of the dock. He sucked in a deep breath of relief, before his brain caught up, and horror choked his throat._

_Steve. If Bucky had come this close, Steve could have easily missed his way, taken a wrong step…_

_For a moment the anxiety held him frozen, staring into the heaving black water 15 feet below. Until… “No.” One word in his own voice, snapped him back into place._

_“Steve,” he whispered. “Steve!” he yelled, spinning, slipping and almost falling again. He hurried into the wind, head bent against it, until he slipped again. This time he had stepped on something other than ice. He crouched, scrabbling in the snow, and picked up Steve’s sketchbook. The bottom pages were soaked through, but the picture on top was relatively unharmed._

_Bucky stared at it for another long minute, before he sprang to his feet. “Steve!”_

_The snow squall was letting up, already he could see farther, five bollards away, six, seven, a shed 30 yards ahead. A bundle of–_

_“Steve!”_

_He was slumped over on his side, curled up, but not shivering. His eyes were closed. “Steve! Oh, God. Steve! Stevie, wake up.”_

_Bucky fell to his knees, thrust his arms under his friend’s thin body, lifting him out of the slush, laying the sketchbook on Steve’s chest. He was soaked through. He was also breathing._

_“Buck.” Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper, and his head lolled against Bucky’s shoulder._

Thank God. _“Stevie. You gotta stay awake gotta listen to me okay? We gotta get you home.”_ Home. _“Aunt Sarah. Oh God, what am I gonna do?”_

_“M’fine, Buck. I’ll be ‘kay.”_

_“You won’t be if we don’t get you home.” Almost immediately Bucky regretted the words. He knew enough to know that it was true. Steve was not shivering, his body was almost limp, and his words came slow and sleepy. That was… not good._

_“Buck?” The word was hardly distinguishable, and Bucky felt his throat constrict. “S’okay, Stevie. S’okay.” He hooked Steve’s right arm around his neck, then stood up, cradling his friend in his arms. He could feel the cold, the dampness seeping through his coat. For a moment fear overtook his usual good sense, and he clutched Steve tight against his chest, pressed his forehead to Steve’s cold one. “I’m here.”_

_He heard shouts behind him, and turned as quickly as he could._

_“Hoy! What are you doing here?”_

_“Please,” Bucky stammered. “My- my friend, he’s… cold. I need to- to get him home.”_

_The tall workman peered down at him, then reached to slap Steve’s cheek lightly, making Bucky flinch. Steve’s head barely moved against Bucky’s shoulder, but Buck caught a faint sound from his lips._

_“Ay, half-frozen he is,” the man said, instantly concerned. “Come on, lad. I’ll flag ye a taxi. Ye can carry him?”_

_“Ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”_

_“Better get him home to your mam, eh.”_

_In the warmth of the taxi, Bucky finally moved fast, stripping off Steve’s thin jacket and shirt, before wrapping his own coat around his upper body. He pulled Steve close, wrapping both arms around him, rubbing his hands up and down his back, trying desperately to share some heat._

_Steve opened his eyes a few times, but he was groggy, disoriented. As they pulled up in front of the Rogers’ apartment building, Bucky realized he was beginning to shake._

_Even in the rush and fear, Bucky would never forget scooping Steve into his arms, grabbing his friend’s sketchbook in one hand, and pausing to see the taxi driver waving him away. “Go, for heaven’s sake. Get him inside.”_

_The world became a blur of Aunt Sarah’s wide eyes, Steve being pulled out of his grasp and whisked away, calls for the doctor, Bucky’s mother bustling around. He stood, dazed, still holding the sketchbook, until someone gently pulled him into the kitchen and sat him down._

_He stared down at the drawing Steve had finished, the detail of the ship, the little figures of the men working over her, the wind and the waves that seemed to breathe off the paper. Only one cloud was smeared. He glanced up, watched his mother boiling water, heating blankets, clicking her tongue._

_Bucky knew Steve better than he knew himself. He knew how Steve liked his Coke, how he liked his cheese sandwiches mashed together, and exactly how far the two of them could run together. He also knew how dangerous getting chilled was for Steve’s already poor immune system. No one had to say it; the word hovered at the back of Bucky’s mind like a black cloud._ Pneumonia.

_Bucky stood with a jerk, and moved to the living room to spread the pad of paper out so it could dry. Steve couldn’t get sick. He couldn’t._

_Steve did._

_He ran cold first, shivering ‘til Bucky thought he might bite his tongue, and he crawled into the bed next to him, desperate to share some warmth. When the fever came, and the sweat ran down his face and he cried for a drink of water, Bucky sat beside him, with a cool wet rag, bathing his forehead again and again._

_And Steve coughed. He would cough ‘til he could hardly breathe, and his desperate fevered gaze would find Bucky’s in a plea for relief._

_Buck would put the glass to his lips, help him take a sip, listen to his breathing ease, until the cough gripped him again._

_“Breathe, Stevie. C’mon. Just breathe.” He never let his voice falter, never let his hands tremble, even as the fourth day drew to a close and the doctor’s eyes were dark as Aunt Sarah’s face was white._

_“It’ll turn tonight,” the doctor said. “His body can’t–”_

_“Take much more,” Aunt Sarah finished._

_“You know what to do, Mother,” the doctor said quietly._

_Outside the bedroom, the doctor lowered his voice. “Perhaps you should send the other boy home tonight. It might be better for him.”_

_“He wouldn’t go if I told him.” Aunt Sarah’s voice wavered slightly. “And I need him. Steve needs him. He’s the only other person…” She fell silent and Bucky glanced over his shoulder, feeling slightly sick._

_“…I trust.”_

_Steve broke into another coughing fit, and Bucky caught his hand. “Breathe, Stevie. You can do it. Come on. You have to,” he added in a whisper._

_Around midnight Bucky managed to coax Aunt Sarah to lie down on the couch for a rest, promising to call her if there was any change. The hours ticked by and Steve became more delirious. Once or twice Bucky thought he heard Steve call, “Father!” but then his eyes would clear enough to recognize his friend._

_His eyes, Steve’s eyes were like fire, blue fire in his pale face, with the two red splashes on his cheeks. In only a few days he’d lost enough weight from his already frail body, that Bucky could see his bones, count his ribs. The one time Bucky let the terrified child inside him acknowledge that, he couldn’t help but also see the fire. Not the fever that wasted him, but the fight that kept him going._

_And Bucky always had Steve’s back in a fight._

_Sometime in the wee hours of the morning Bucky blinked, and shook his head. The room was very quiet. He realized he had nodded off in his chair, and he took a sharp breath, lifted his head. As his gaze fell on Steve, Bucky went still as stone. He did not breathe again… until he saw the sheets rise… and fall… rise… and fall._

_He stood, and leaned over the bed to touch Steve’s forehead. Cool and damp. Steve did not move, except for his chest as he breathed; Bucky could hear the rasp, softer now. In the glow of the bedside lamp, Bucky could see his face smoothed out as he slept peacefully._

_Bucky felt himself falling forward, and caught himself just in time. Without thinking, he sat on the edge of the bed, swung his legs up, and lay down, rolling onto his side to face Steve. He watched Steve breathe, and his eyes drifted shut._

“Bucky! Sergeant Barnes!”

Bucky glanced up to smile at Shuri. “Hey, Princess.”

“Nice spot,” she said, sitting beside him, nodding at the view of the river. “Nice hair,” she added, eyeing his head.

Bucky flushed and started tugging the messy braids loose. “Yeah, Nontasasa asked if she could practice on me. What was I supposed to say?”

“Congratulations, you’re an idiot?”

“What?!” Bucky stared at her as she started cracking up. “Let me guess. Pop culture. Young people these days,” Bucky went on, muttering to himself, but loud enough for Shuri to hear. “No respect for their elders.”

“Oh, here, let me help you with that, old man.” She was still laughing, and Bucky swatted her hand away.

“No way.” Bucky shook his hair loose (Thank God, he’d cut it!), and grabbed his pen. “Please? I’m trying to–”

“Sorry,” Shuri said, almost instantly sobering, though her mouth still twitched.

Bucky stared at the scrawled words, the capturing of another memory. He didn’t do it as much has he had; the fear of losing one of those stories from his past had lessened. Especially with the addition of new ones, good ones.

“It was my fault he got sick that time. We were at the Navy Yard when a snow storm blew in and I lost him.” Bucky kept his head down. “He almost died. I mean, it wasn’t the first time, or the last time, but I just… When it gets to the point where there’s nothing more you can do, and he had to fight it himself. I guess I– I never doubted _him_. I did doubt myself. But I really hoped my just being there made some difference.”

“Of course it did. It always does.”

Bucky dared to look over at her, and she gave him a half-smile. “I know he left yesterday.”

“Another mission.” Bucky dropped his notebook and twirled the pen in his fingers. The same way he could twirl a knife. “Captain America can’t rest. It’s just… Steve. His way.” He shrugged. “As long as he thinks he can do something, he’ll do it.”

“Do you ever think of joining him?”

“Yeah. I miss… working together. Fighting with Steve was always different. It was… good.” Bucky waved to a passing boat, then paused and stared at his hand. “But I spent too long… I want to do something different with my hands. Or the one I have left.” He cleared his throat. “Bring life. Not take it. At least… for now…”

“That reminds me!” Shuri snapped her fingers. “I want you to come into the lab tomorrow, for the day. I have been working on a design for a new arm, but I need to make sure of all the measurements. Like you said,” she added, catching his eye. “Just in case.”

Bucky hesitated and Shuri gave him that ‘don’t be so mean’ look. “You haven’t come to the lab in weeks. There are a few other projects I’d like to show you, but I also want you to hear some new music.”

Bucky groaned, and Shuri slapped him. “Stop that or I won’t dance with you.”

Oh. That was something else Shuri had helped him discover, or re-discover, as the case may be. He loved to dance. Bucky gave a gusty sigh. “Okay, fine. But you really just want someone to brag to. Especially someone as outdated as me.”

“Well, is that better than being old?”

“Shut up.”

She was laughing at him again, even as she started singing, bobbing her head to the tune. “Shut up and dance with me. Ohh, shut up and dance with me.”

“Ha ha.” Bucky got to his feet. “You know I actually liked that song.” He turned to walk away, and Shuri jumped up. “Sorry, but I really should get back to work. If I’m gonna be gone all day tomorrow, I’ll have to cut and carry some more.”

“I’ll send a ride for you first thing,” she called after him.

_“Merci.”_

_“De rien.”_

“Since when do you know French?” he asked, stopping and half turning.

“I’m smarter than I look!”

“Darn right.”

“Hey! That’s not what I meant…”

***

“We can’t be sure which road they’ll take.” Natasha stabbed at the map with one finger. “There are three. North-north-west, straight south and south-east. The south-east is the least used, according to data from the last five years.”

“Nat take the south-east, Sam the south. Wanda, you’re with me.” Steve folded the map, rested his hands on the table. “Civilian protection is paramount. Attract no attention. Just take the bad guys down and get the hell out of there.”

“Maybe I should take the south road,” Wanda said, biting her lip. “Then Sam can watch us all from above.”

Steve watched her for a moment. She was still afraid, wasn’t she? Afraid of letting him down, of letting the innocents down. “I need you watching my back.”

She stared at him, then gave a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

Steve nodded sharply. “Ten minutes ‘til we move out. Get ready.”

Sam and Nat started running equipment checks, and Steve went forward in the Quinjet to where he’d left his duffle bag. Well, it was a heck of a lot easier to blend in without the shield, but he missed it. He unzipped the bag, dug around for his gloves, and ended up having to pull out everything to find them at the very bottom. Along with a large leaf wrapped around something.

Steve paused, staring at the little bundle in his hand. “What, run out of paper, Buck?” he murmured. He hesitated only a moment, before tugging at the string that bound the big leaf together.

The writing was in Wakandan. It ran around the rim of the little wooden disk, surrounding a carving of stars: one big one in the middle surrounded by several smaller ones. The wood was pale yellow, but around the stars it had been stained almost black. There was also a piece of paper.

_There are a hundred stars to guide you, but only one to lead you home._

Steve recognized Dr. Dal’s handwriting. He knelt on the floor re-reading the message several times, internalizing it.

“You’re happy.”

Steve started and glanced over his shoulder at Wanda, half-smiling without realizing it. “I guess so.” He turned back, slipping the medallion into his pocket and pulling his gloves on, before putting everything back in his bag. He zipped it shut and stood, sucking in a deep breath.

“You are lucky,” Wanda said, quietly. When he glanced at her, she turned her head so her hair covered her face.

“I know.” Steve rubbed his beard, watching her for a moment. She always seemed young, compared to Nat anyway. And it _had_ been only two years since Pietro had died. The grief would catch her when she least expected it; Steve knew all about that.

“I think… I think he’d be proud of you.” She turned her head enough to peek at him, and he kept talking. “You’re doing a good job. All things considered.” Steve took a deep breath. “He’d want you to live. And that includes making mistakes. And doing the right thing. And putting your heart out there. I’m glad I get to work with you.”

He reached out to rest one hand on her shoulder and give a gentle squeeze. “Thanks.”

“No,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“We’ve all got people that would like to see us again,” Steve shrugged, and strode toward the back of the jet, where Nat and Sam were now waiting. “So let’s all do this right.”

***

Bucky ate his supper alone that night, flipping another couple pages in the sketchbook. His hand froze as he stared down at a perfect replica of the Navy Yard drawing.

The swift, accurate lines depicting the battleship and the little figures of the men, swarming around her. The grey lowering clouds and angry water in the distance.

He could hear Steve’s voice in his head: _“It’ll just remind me how you saved my life.”_

Bucky smiled. “Punk,” he muttered.

 

_In this world of strangers_  
_Of cold unfriendly faces_  
_Someone you can trust, Oh there's someone you can trust_  
_I will be your shelter_  
_I'll give you my shoulder_  
_Just reach out for my love, Reach out for my love_  
_Call my name and my heart will hear_  
_I will be there, there's nothing to fear_  
_I will be here for you_  
_Somewhere in the night, somewhere in the night_  
_I’ll shine a light for you_  
_Somewhere in the night, I’ll be standing by_  
_I will be here for you._

_-‘I Will Be Here for You’ by Michael W. Smith_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And my schedule should be back to every Saturday. See you next week.


	8. Find Your Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this is so late. Writer's block, and a hectic (though good) weekend were not helpful.  
> Contains nightmares, food, and _Frozen _references. Sorry, couldn't resist.__
> 
>  
> 
>   
> _This is set in the last week of July 2017._  
> 

_Bucky stood outside his hut, watching the fire. The flames danced into the night, painting the sky._

_Steve was standing on the other side, orange glimmers in his eyes. He wasn’t smiling; he looked almost sad. Bucky started to walk toward him, reaching out for his friend, ready to ask what was wrong. “Steve?”_

_But he didn’t get any closer. The fire was bigger now; so big it filled the chasm between them. Bucky looked up at Steve, suddenly frightened. “Jump,” he called. “Steve, jump!”_

_But Steve didn’t. He just looked at Bucky with those sad eyes, and dropped the shield. It fell down, down, and suddenly Bucky realized he was watching_ Steve _fall._

_“Steve!”_

_He tried to jump after his friend, but there were hands holding him back, forcing him down. He swung his metal fist, whirled to grab one by the throat, throw them aside._

_But it was Steve who landed on the ground, bloody and broken, and when Bucky looked down at his hands he saw blood. Steve’s blood. He held a red-smeared knife, which he threw away in horror. But when he got to Steve’s side, it was there, buried in the blonde man’s chest._

_“NO!” He lunged forward, reaching to pull it out, and his hand smacked against something hard. “Steve!”_

Bucky sat up in the dark, fumbling with his one hand. “Please, Steve…”

Soft blanket. Firm sleeping mat. Hard ground. He could make out the window in the opposite wall, a bit of moonlight coming in.

_Oh, God._

Bucky hunched over, hand braced against the floor, fighting for breath. He tried to count up the inhale, then the exhale, but his brain couldn’t connect. Somehow he was able to grasp the fact that he was headed for a full-blown panic attack.

Light, he needed to actually _see_ where he was. With a shaking hand he found the switch (close by for this very purpose), and a yellow glow spilled over the room.

Bucky’s eyes darted from one thing to another, scanning the floor multiple times, before he could take in the fact that Steve was not there.

 _Focus. Just breathe._ That was Steve’s voice in his head. _Just breathe._ Steve said that all the time. _Focus._ He locked his gaze on a drawing tacked on the wall, managed to count _1, 2_ , before he had to let it out. In _,_ _1, 2_. Out, _1, 2_. In, _1, 2, 3_. Out, _1, 2, 3._ Slowly he regained control.

Steve had done that sketch, only a couple weeks ago. The Howling Commandos around a campfire, some sitting, some standing. He counted them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and Steve who had done the picture. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Gabe, Dum-Dum, Monty, Falsworth– No, Monty was Falsworth, that was his nickname. Short for Montgomery. James Montgomery Falsworth. _“I am what is left of His Majesty’s 3 rd Independent Parachute Brigade.”_

Bucky sagged back against his pillow, before shifting further back to lean against the wall. Just remembering that felt like a victory. He let his eyes drift shut… then opened them in a hurry. _Crap._

Okay, he would not be falling back to sleep for a while. He huffed a sigh, and rubbed his hand over his face. _God, why does this happen to me?_ A purely rhetorical question.

Writing in his journal was too much work. Besides he would have to get up and go over to his desk where he’d left it that morning. Or was it yesterday morning now?

He wished he could call Steve. Just to hear his voice, that warm timbre, his strength. But no. He didn’t even know where Steve was; there had been radio silence for four days now. Maybe that was why he’d had one of _those_ dreams; he was afraid, even in his sleep.

_Dear God, keep him safe. Even if I don’t deserve anything, You know he does._

Bucky let his head fall sideways, and his eye fell on the cream cover and silver coil of the sketchbook, lying on Steve's neatly folded blankets. Like a thirsty man reaching for water, Bucky snagged the book, pulled it into his lap. Just the feel of it, solid, like a part of Steve.

He let it fall open randomly, to a sketch of an army camp, tents, trees in the background, the sun peeking out. Men standing in little groups, and off to the side, a girl. Peggy. Bucky wrinkled his nose trying to smell the woods, the wet earth, the campfire smoke, the taste of worn-out coffee.

_Mail day._

_Bucky grinned, as others eyed him enviously, when the biggest brown paper package was handed to him. “Ha.” He turned to Steve. “Look at that. ‘Sgt. James Barnes and Cpt. Steve Rogers’. You know what that means.”_

_Steve was turning his wet socks, as they dried by the fire, and looked up with a grin. “Something good, I hope.”_

_Bucky laughed and set it on the little table, beside their coffee mugs. Everything felt better today, since the rain had stopped. All over the camp, fires had started and wet clothes were getting hung out. The sun was even trying to slip through the clouds._

_Steve came over and sat on a camp stool, while Bucky cut the string and tape. He pulled out the paper bag marked COOKIES, and tossed them across. “Here’s your bone, pup.” He laughed at Steve’s face going red._

_“You jerk.” Steve opened the bag and threw a cookie back at Bucky. “Catch, doggie.”_

_Not expecting the action, Bucky had to dive to grab the treat before it hit the ground. “Ugh.” Holding the cookie so it wouldn’t crumble, he rolled over and sat up, stared down at the mud on his shirt and pants. Glared at Steve. “Ya punk.” The rest of his insults were mumbled through a full mouth, before he stopped talking, his eyes going wide._

_Steve grinned back, popping another ginger cookie in his own mouth. “Heaven, eh?”_

_Bucky let the sweet sugar and the spicy ginger and the warm molasses all melt together on his tongue, oddly making his eyes water, and sighed. “Heck, yeah.”_

_Steve tossed him another treat. “Get out of the dirt, Sarge.”_

_“Don’t pull rank on me, pal.” Bucky wagged his head as he got up. “You put me there.” He popped the cookie in his mouth, then rolled his eyes as Steve reached into the bag and came up empty. “Don’t sweat it. Just means I get all the fruit mix.”_

_Steve’s eyes went wide, before he groaned. “Aww…”_

_Bucky gave a hearty chuckle. “Grow up.”_

_“Thought I did that.” Steve rubbed one hand over his face, the cut on his jaw from shaving that morning already gone. Bucky couldn’t help but notice he looked hungry, even as he tried to hide it behind the ‘Captain America’ sternness. Bucky held back a sigh. They really were just kids, weren’t they, both of them._

_“Let’s see what else we’ve got.” He ducked his head, before he could see Steve looking surprised at his abrupt tone._

_There were a new pair of socks for each of them. A precious pack of cigarettes. Knitted mufflers, in preparation for winter. An envelope with a handful of photographs._

_There were letters from Mrs. Barnes for each of them, and the same from Becca. They talked about seeing the news reels of Captain America and his Commandos leading the march into Paris, and how proud Bucky’s father had been. They talked about the weather (fine), little Jamie (growing and walking), and Mr. Barnes’s sight (getting worse). Kenny Harmon across the street had caught polio and was in the hospital. Connie Dougherty was still not dating anyone else, and Bucky’s mom considered her ‘a keeper’. (That part he did not read to Steve, even when Steve asked him, ‘Why are your ears going red?’) Liz and Tom had settled out in Illinois and Anna was enjoying her job at the factory._

_“She says she’s got muscles like Rosie the Riveter,” Steve said, which earned a chuckle from Dum-Dum, who had joined them after finishing with his own missives, looking somber._

_“How’s the wife?” Bucky asked, before popping a handful of dried fruit, mixed with nuts, in his mouth._

_“Just fine, just fine,” the big man answered, over Steve saying, “Hey, save some of that,” and pulling the bag away, while Bucky protested._

_Steve smacked his arm, and turned back to Dum-Dum, still holding the paper sack. “Aw, we’ll get home soon. Another lab, and our list‘ll be empty, ‘cept for pinning down Zola and Schmidt.”_

_Dum-Dum barked a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s all.”_

_“I have the best men in the world.” Steve shrugged. “We’ll be home by spring.”_

_Bucky heard his words without listening, still eyeing the bag, now resting on Steve’s knee. With a single movement, he surged out of his seat, swept the bag out of Steve’s hand and bolted several yards away. Before he could even swing around, a long arm snaked around his shoulders, and across his chest, yanking him back._

_“Hey!”_

_The bag went flying as Bucky twisted against Steve’s chest, trying to throw a punch, until Steve gently flipped him over his shoulder. Bucky’s wild kicking threw him off balance though, and Steve staggered before dropping to one knee. Bucky worked his way free, but Steve stopped his return attack with a grin. “Please. I don’t feel like rolling in the mud. We’ll get enough of that tomorrow.”_

_Bucky paused, then relaxed, and put out a hand to pull Steve to his feet. “And tomorrow you’d better be leading the way.”_

*** 

When Bucky next opened his eyes it was morning, and Khwezi was peeking around the dividing wall.

His eyes met Bucky’s and he smiled. _“Ingcuka Emhlophe!”_

“Hey,” Bucky murmured and held out his hand, so the little boy came running. The skinny arms went around his neck, and Bucky rested his chin on the curly head, felt the life vibrating through the child.

_“Molweni ekuseni!”_

_“Molweni ekuseni,”_ Bucky answered, quietly.

Khwezi pulled back to look at him, tilting his head. _“Ingaba ulungile?”_

 _“Ewe._ I just didn’t sleep very well.”

Khwezi frowned, then twisted in Bucky’s hold to look down at his lap. “What is that?” He picked up the sketchbook, stared at the picture, traced the tents with one finger.

“That’s Europe.”

“What is Ee-rope?” Khwezi frowned, stumbling over the word.

Bucky took the book back, closed it, and got to his feet. “I’ll give you a geography lesson over breakfast. But first we need to feed the goats.” He set the sketchbook on the desk beside his journal, and took Khwezi’s hand. 

"Come on."

Breakfast was noisier that morning. Bucky had invited Umkhulu along with the boys, and she kept up her usual scolding, at least until her mouth was full. Like always Bucky inhaled his two bowls of porridge, earning him another reprimand, which he answered with a smile.

“Hey, Umkhulu. Can you show these kids a globe? Khwezi wants to know where Europe is.”

She eyed him for a moment, lifting one hand to push the green scarf a little further back on her grey hair. “You a teacher now too? That elder’s _and_ women’s work.”

Sometimes Bucky thought she talked broken English just to tease him. “Actually I am elder. Chronologically I’m...” He stopped himself. “Well, pretty darn old.” He preferred the villagers not knowing everything.

Umkhulu was shaking her head. “Old eyes, yes. Old heart, no.” She grinned at him suddenly, and pulled a kimoyo bead off her wrist. “Wisdom does not come overnight.”

Bucky let out a breath as she tapped the bead with her finger, producing a large holographic globe, before setting it on the ground. The boys gathered around, and Bucky grinned at Khwezi. “See this is Europe, and this over here is Wakanda.” As he touched an individual country it glowed gold, standing out from the blue and green.

“Why were you there?” Avi asked.

“I was helping Steve fight some bad people.”

“What was it like?” Khwezi asked, at the same time Fundani said, “Were you born there?”

“Depends on where you were. Poland was fun, France and Germany were alright. Italy and Austria were… umm, pretty bad.” He gave his head a quick shake. “I was born in the United States. Other side of the Atlantic.”

Avi made a motion with his palm to spin the globe, and Bucky pointed. “Brooklyn, New York. Actually I was born in Indiana, but I was only a couple months old when my folks moved back to New York.”

“Did you live in the city?” Fundani asked.

“Yep. My cousins had a farm, and we would visit in the summers, but I liked the city better.” Bucky smiled at the boy. “But I like living out here now.”

Khwezi leaned forward to tap one finger against the projection. “So you were here,” (Brooklyn) “here,” (France) “and came here?” (Wakanda) “That’s a long way.”

“You forgot Russia and Iraq and Egypt and England and Washington and St. Louis and Romania and… heck, I don’t even know where all I’ve been.” Bucky enjoyed making those kids’ eyes go wide.

“Then how did you find your way _here_?” Avi asked.

Bucky huffed a short laugh, then sat there for a minute staring blankly at the ground. “Steve. Mostly.” He looked up and shrugged. “He found me. And then T- King T’Challa said he would help us. And he let us come here.”

Khwezi suddenly jumped up and put one arm around Bucky’s neck. “I am happy he did. I am happy you are here.”

Avi and Fundani also sprang to hug him, shouting, _“Nam! Nam!”_ until Bucky tickled them and they all fell over giggling.

Slightly embarrassed by their display of affection, Bucky glanced sideways at Umkhulu, who was licking her spoon in a most undignified manner, not that she cared about dignity.

 _“Nam,”_ she said suddenly, smiling. _“Nam.”_

***

It was another two days before the calendar slid into August, and Bucky’s cellphone rang.

He had just gotten back from the market, and was quietly humming to himself as he put away his groceries, when a burst of loud, upbeat music startled him. He almost dropped a bag of flour, and mentally cursed Shuri and her bright ideas while he hurried into the bedroom, and grabbed the phone off the bookshelf. _Video call._ He gulped a deep breath, feeling almost dizzy, before he hit the screen to answer it. Only two people could call him here: Shuri and Steve. And he had just seen Shuri yesterday.

“Buck?”

Steve’s face was startlingly clear, those bright blue eyes, searching for him.

“Yeah?” Bucky croaked, before letting himself slump against the wall.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Me?!” Bucky gave his friend the most incredulous look he could muster. “What kinda Cain have you been raising that means you can’t call?”

Steve’s face relaxed, and he chuckled. “Yeah, sorry. Couldn’t get a connection ‘til now. Things are alright otherwise.”

Despite the potentially thousands of miles between them, Steve and Bucky’s eyes met and Bucky felt the familiar warmth wash away his fears.

“Had to call when I was in the middle of something though, didn’t you?” Bucky said, pushing himself off the wall and heading back to the kitchen. “Just got back from the market.”

“Find any bargains?”

Bucky set the phone on the table and tapped one corner of the screen to bring up a bigger holographic image. “Ran into Ntando. You know, the herdsman I got the sheep from?” He grabbed a bag of plums and grinned at Steve, whose face was now a little larger than life. “He’s gonna loan me one of his rams and a buck too. That’s a male goat. So the lambs and kids will be born early January. Ntando said the best time to shear will be the week before, so it’s gonna be busy right after Christmas.” He was working as he talked, but now paused to glance at his friend’s image. “Might be glad of some help.”

Steve was grinning, so bright it made Bucky blink. “You can count on us.”

“Hey.” The view suddenly changed, bouncing around in a blur. Clearly, Sam had just grabbed Steve’s phone.

“Sam!” Steve protested.

“Aw, come on.”

There was some struggling, before the picture finally steadied, and Bucky could see Sam, front and centre, Steve leaning in from the side.

“Hey, Barnes, did you just call yourself a male goat?”

“Sure. A guy who’s the Greatest Of All Time. That would be me.” He smirked at Sam’s startled choking, and Steve’s confused eyebrow raise. “Actually, that would be Steve.”

“Okay, male goat.” Sam elbowed Steve, then frowned at Bucky. “Hey, you guys tell each other everything. Is he gonna have kids in January too?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to choke. “Saam! What are you-? Just give me that back.”

The camera jumped around some more, accompanied by Sam’s cheerful curses, which were cut off by a yelp. Steve’s face reappeared, a little flushed and looking annoyed, embarrassed, and amused.

“Sorry, I had to–”

“What are you doin’ using those moves on me?” Sam groaned in the background.

Bucky was laughing. “Watch it, pal. Don’t go killing off your subordinates.”

“Ya, jerk,” Steve threw back.

Sam appeared next to Steve, his face twisted in a pained expression. “Can you tell him to lay off next time?” he asked.

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to lay off,” Bucky returned.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

Steve cut them off. “Okay, that’s enough. You guys sound like four-year-olds.”

“Where are you guys, anyway?” Bucky asked. “If you were here I’d offer you sandwiches.”

Steve smiled. “We already ate.”

“We are currently in a crappy hotel room that prominently features cockroaches.” Sam grinned wickedly. “At least the ones that Wanda hasn’t taken care of yet.”

Steve laughed. “You should have seen her and Nat.”

Bucky made his sandwiches, listening to the other men talk. He was very glad neither mentioned his struggle with the mayo container; without a refrigerator he knew he would only be able to keep it for a day or two, but he sorely missed the taste of a regular sandwich.

“Hey, what are you singing?” Steve interrupted Sam, and Bucky looked up startled.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, you were just humming something. Didn’t recognize it.”

Bucky frowned, thinking. _Let it go, let it go…_ “Ugh.” He groaned. “This stupid movie Shuri made me watch. I thought it was kinda stupid, anyway.”

“What movie?” Sam asked.

“Think it was called _Frozen_? She told me I’d like it, for some reason.” Bucky saw Steve frown, and sighed. “It’s a _children’s_ movie, a musical. It’s about these two sisters.” Bucky laid the top slice of bread on, and mashed it down with his palm. “Actually, the story did kinda remind me of, well, you.” He glanced up at Steve. “’Cept the younger girl was kinda weird. I mean her big sister shut her out for _years_. And she didn’t even _try_ to get through. She would just knock at the door and then go away. I mean if she really cared, she should have, I don’t know. Picked the lock, or something. I’ll bet she had hairpins. I don’t know.” He stopped, felt his face flush.

“Whoo,” Sam chuckled. “That’s harsh. My sister’s kids love that movie.”

Bucky shrugged, ducked his head to let his hair half-cover his face. “Yeah, well, I think she should have found some way.” He peeked up at Steve. “I mean, you did. And you’re not even my brother. Not that it would make a difference."

There was a silence, long enough that Bucky had to look back at his friend’s face. Steve had that funny smile, the one that was happy and sad at the same time, with love shining out of his eyes.

“Sap,” he blurted.

Steve broke into a deep chuckle, but his look still reached right down into Bucky’s heart, the warmest of sunbeams. “Sap yourself.”

Bucky held up his sandwich. “Well, whenever you find your way back here, there will be sandwiches waiting.”

Sam snorted. “They’d be dry by the time we got there.”

Bucky grinned through his big bite of bread, mayo, and meat. “Not as dry as you.”

 

_You’re never too lost to know where the road is_  
_It could be dark, you could be hopeless_  
_But, I’ll wait ‘til you find your way_  
_You’re never too far to be forgotten_  
_Here in my heart, I hear you calling_  
_So I’ll wait ‘til you find your way back home_

_-‘Find Your Way’ by The Afters_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Molweni ekuseni_ : Good morning  
>  _Ingaba ulungile_ : Are you okay?  
>  _Ewe_ : Yes  
>  _Nam_ : Me too.
> 
> I actually do like _Frozen _, but I put my one plot hole in Bucky's thoughts. Did anyone else notice the similarities?__


	9. Bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the angsty chapter I was anticipating. Oh well...  
> A lot of things in this chapter were helped along by Griselda_Banks. Thanks again! ^_^
> 
> This is:  
> September 1, 2017

_They stood in line for over ten minutes, Bucky bouncing on his heels with excitement. “Won’t it be fun?”_

_There were two other boys with them, Italians, one quick-tempered, the other more easy-going. The friendlier one nodded, smiling. “I’ve heard it goes over fifty miles an hour.”_

_Bucky felt Steve shifting uneasily next to him, and he felt annoyed all over again. Why did Steve have to be a wet blanket? He had a much higher opinion of his friend’s bravery than that. “Hey, Stevie?” he asked, keeping his voice innocent. “How high do you think it goes?”_

_“Sign said eighty-five feet,” Steve answered._

_“Have you ever been on a roller coaster before?” Bucky asked the other boys._

_They both nodded. “Many times,” the rougher one answered._ “Mio padre _owns one.”_

_The other boy rolled his eyes. “And my father owns a garage and fixes cars. It’s not that big a deal.”_

_“What about you, Steve? Ever ridden a ‘coaster?”_

_Steve shot him a glare, though his voice remained neutral. “Once with you. Did you forget?”_

_“No, this one’s just going to be waaay better.”_

_He was so busy talking that Steve didn’t even notice they were at the head of the line, until Bucky stepped up to plunk down his quarter. “Come on, come on,” called the guard impatiently. He looked hot and bothered; it was a busy day for him._

_“Come on,” Bucky repeated, grabbing Steve’s arm._

_Steve glared at him. “I already said I didn’t want to!” he growled under his breath._

_The meaner boy was quick to pounce. “Ohh, baby’s scared to ride the Cyclone.”_

_“I am not a baby!” Steve snapped. “I just don’t want to.”_

_“Cyclone Coward. Cyclone Coward,” the Italian boy began to chant. “Cyclone Coward.”_

_His companion said something that Bucky guessed meant ‘Shut up’._

_Bucky cocked his head at Steve. “Seriously? You gonna take that? Come on. It ain’t gonna kill you.”_

_Steve shot Bucky a positively murderous look, before slapping his quarter on the counter and storming past Bucky to the platform where people got into the cars. Bucky hurried after him, grinning. Steve would forget about this once he had as much fun as Bucky knew he would have._

“Is it fun?” Khwezi asked.

“It looks like fun,” Fundani said. He gave Avi’s arm a little smack. _“Khawulezia.”_ His brother took his time withdrawing his hand from the bowl of nuts.

“Oh, it was fun.” Bucky smiled. “For me. Until Steve threw up.”

“What?” Khwezi stared at him.

Bucky made a gagging noise, and mimed vomiting, making the boys cry, “Ohhh!” and burst into giggles.

“All over my shirt.” Bucky shook his head fondly. “It was just bad luck that the other kids were sitting behind us. He wouldn’t stop making fun of Steve, and Steve just wanted to hit me, I think. ‘Cept he was feeling too miserable.”

“What did you do?” Avi asked, now shoving Fundani’s hand away from the nuts, and grabbing another handful.

“Bought him an ice cold Coke,” Bucky said, holding out his hand. Avi poured some of the roasted, salted seeds into Bucky’s palm. “And got rid of my shirt,” he added, before popping the delicacies into his mouth. He and Steve had gotten well sunburned that day. Aunt Sarah had scolded them both for losing their shirts, and Bucky had never told about Steve misadventure.

“Thanks,” he mumbled through his full mouth, and Khwezi wagged his finger at him, in a perfect imitation of Umkhulu.

“Don’t talk with full mouth.”

Bucky held back his laughter, and rubbed his hand over the little head. He swallowed, and gently closed the sketchbook in his lap, before climbing to his feet. “Well, maybe we should do something useful before we have _isidlo sakusihlwa_ with the elders.”

He ducked inside, hurrying to the back room to leave the book on his desk. “Who wants to come to Nomlanga’s with me?” Bucky asked as he came back out.

“Me! Me!” All three boys came clamouring around and Bucky laughed, scooped Khwezi up so the littlest one could clamber up onto his shoulders.

“Alright. _Masihambe.”_

***

Nomlanga was a famous wood carver, whose hut was in the village. But he frequently travelled, doing custom work around the country. Bucky had purchased one of his carvings at a market as a Christmas present for Sam, six months ago, and if the man was in town, he liked to go and watch him work, and look at his beautiful designs. Of course, so did everyone else in the surrounding area.

There were a couple dozen kids already there, ranging in ages from babies to mid-teens—the usual. Khwezi dragged Bucky to the front, some of the kids greeting him, _“Ingcuka Emhlophe! Mholweni!”_

Nomlanga, a thin, wiry man, with a cackle of a laugh and unlit pipe permanently stuck between the gap in his front teeth, did not look up.

Khwezi settled in Bucky’s lap, slumped back against his chest, his head resting above Bucky’s heart. It was not the first time Bucky felt that surge of protectiveness.

He had a sudden clear picture of sitting in the grass at Prospect Park, one of the twins in his lap, Steve with the other, and Becca sandwiched between them. They were watching some children’s entertainer, a man with a little dog that could jump through his arms and walk on its hind legs.

He glanced down at Avi and Fundani beside him, still nibbling on nuts, and felt that familiar pang of wishing Steve could be here.

Nomlanga was working on a larger carving, a couple feet long and half that high, of a warrior with a spear facing down a lion.

They’d been watching for maybe an hour, and Bucky had only had to break up two fights, when Princess Shuri showed up. All the little kids fell over themselves to greet her, and Nomlanga glanced up. He grinned and caught Bucky’s eye, then started laughing. Bucky grinned back, guessing he found the Three Musketeers’ reaction amusing.

They just waved over at Shuri, then called for Nomlanga to keep working. Khwezi didn’t even look around.

After things settled down, Shuri took her time working her way up to the front, to sit by Bucky. She was wearing pants instead of a skirt, and sat cross-legged, a little girl in her lap, and half a dozen others sitting beside her or standing, leaning against her shoulders.

She grinned over at Bucky. “One big happy family,” she said.

Bucky laughed, reached to grab the last of the nuts before Avi and Fundani could start a fight. “Sure, sister.”

Shuri glanced at him, an unguarded smile crossing her face. “I have a surprise waiting for you back at your hut.”

Bucky gave a mock groan. “Oh no, you’re going to make a fool of me in one way or another.”

Shuri kept a straight face. “No, not a fool. Just a _big_ fool.”

Bucky still had a hard time telling when Shuri was serious and when she was just making fun of him, so he couldn’t help but wonder as they walked home, about half an hour later. Xoliswa, the princess’s guard, followed a couple yards behind.

Avi and Fundani held her hands and skipped, singing a little song, while Khwezi walked beside Bucky, a little carved star clasped in one hand.

Bucky glanced down and found the little boy looking back, with a puzzled face. “Are you her _ubhuti_ too?”

Shuri laughed, and Bucky felt his cheeks flush. “No,” he said quickly. “But she does remind me a lot of my little sisters.”

“You’re making yourself sound old now.”

Bucky shook his head, unable to hold back a chuckle. “See, only sisters can get away with that kinda thing.”

“Is all your family gone?” Shuri asked. That way she had of dropping a serious question on him out of nowhere could be disconcerting, and Bucky blinked.

He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Steve did find JB and his family; he was Becca and Frank’s son. Guess what their first two boys were named.” He shrugged then, finding that ‘old’ feeling creeping up on him. “Steve’s the only one I’ve got left.”

“You have us too,” she said, looking straight ahead. “If you’ll take us.”

They walked on in silence, Bucky unable to find any words that wouldn’t make his voice crack.

***

Books.

It was a box full of books. Old, beat up ones with worn covers, missing dustjackets, and titles Bucky knew. _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Hardy Boys: The Tower Treasure, Tom Swift and His Sky Racer, Old Yeller, Gone With the Wind, Moby Dick, Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island…_ At some point he stopped naming them all and just stared. Two dozen books almost all of them ones he remembered reading, even if he didn’t remember what happened in them.

“What?” It was really all he could come up with and he glanced helplessly at Shuri.

“Now you look like a little boy,” she grinned.

Bucky didn’t really pay any attention to that. “How did you–? I mean, where did you get these? And how did you know…? The only person who would know…” He picked up a hardcover copy of _The Boys of Summer_ (one he hadn’t read, but already knew he would enjoy), remembered the feel of a bat in his hands, Steve cheering him on.

“He gave me the list,” Shuri said. “That was what I could find.”

“You can read all those?” Fundani asked, perched on the table, swinging his legs.

“Yeah. I’d read, Steve would draw.” They’d sit out on the fire escape sometimes when it got too hot, and Bucky was pretty sure he’d been reading a dog story, something about a wolf in the Artic, when he’d nodded off and dropped the book into the alley below and almost caused a nasty accident between two bicyclists. Steve of course had blamed himself for not shaking Bucky awake and…

Bucky shook his head at that that familiar ache. He would read these books and he would remember, and he would read them and enjoy them _now_.

He turned from the table where he had been unpacking the box, and without thinking pulled Shuri into a hug. Xoliswa stepped forward suddenly, frowning, but Shuri just hugged Bucky back laughing.

“You’re welcome, _Ingcuka Emhlophe._ Just don’t read them all at once. I think Captain Rogers was looking for some of those himself.” She pulled back, cocked her head. “You are such _nerds._  You are these famous soldiers and yet you like to hang out in the lab with me, you like to read old books, and Captain Rogers is such a beautiful artist.”

Bucky shrugged, and he spoke without thinking. “Can’t judge a book by its cover.”

***

Bucky was yawning over his journal, when his phone started playing Beethoven’s 9th symphony. He gave a surprised laugh, before he scrambled to his feet. Good grief, how did Shuri _do_ that? Assuming it was Steve, he grabbed the phone and hurried back to his sleeping mat.

It had been over a week since Steve last called, but Bucky was getting used to the silences. He had to.

 _Steve._ Video call.

Bucky hit ACCEPT.

“Steve?”

“Hey.”

The image was almost grainy, the camera jerking around before it steadied and Steve’s face came into focus. Behind him was a pale yellow wall, with butterfly stickers on it?

Bucky frowned. Steve had that bleary look of having slept half the day. “Where are you? What have you been doing?”

“Brenham, Texas,” Steve answered. He yawned suddenly, and a hand holding a mug that read _What’s up, Doc?_ in lime green letters, appeared. “And getting half-drowned.”

Steve took a long drink while Bucky processed this information. “US? What the heck?! Are you trying to get caught?” He was scowling at his friend, as Steve set the mug aside, and sighed, rubbing a hand over the thick stubble on his chin.

“It’s easy to go unnoticed in the middle of a hurricane. And I wasn’t gonna let Sam deal with this alone.”

“Deal with what? Okay, spill, Steve. And from the beginning. I got plenty of time.”

“And I just woke up.” Steve gave him a tired smile. “’M glad to hear your voice, Buck. It’s been… pretty insane.” He settled back against the wall, and Bucky figured he had the phone propped on top of something. “So we were... on the other side of the world, when we saw the news feed. Let’s see, Saturday evening. Big hurricane had hit Texas.” He grimaced. “Sam… didn’t take that too well.”

Bucky watched Steve’s face as he talked, listened to the warm timbre of his voice. It was called Hurricane Harvey and it was a bad one. When he explained that Texas was where Riley’s family lived, his wife, and all his wife’s family, Bucky understood.

“They’d promised each other, you know, that they’d take care of their families if anything ever happened.” Steve half-smiled. “Guess what Riley named his daughter?”

“Umm, Sam?”

“Yep, Samantha.”

Sam had started calling people, trying to find out if Rachel (Riley’s wife) and her husband were okay, then Rachel’s parents, and finally Riley’s parents. Riley’s parents were the only ones who answered. They lived in Brenham, NE of Houston.

Riley and Rachel had lived in San Antonio, until, a couple years after Riley died, she had remarried and moved to Houston, or moved back since that was where she had grown up and her parents still lived. And Houston was getting drowned.

“Thanks to time change, it was still Saturday night, when we landed in Mexico. We… uh, you know, hitched a ride across the border. Sam wanted to go alone.” Steve shrugged, took another mouthful of coffee. “I wouldn’t let him.”

Sunday afternoon, driving through two feet of water, they’d headed for Houston, stopping time and again to assist in rescue efforts.

“So wait, you’re in Brenham now?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. Got a call Monday morning that Rachel and Jason had evacuated to Riley’s parents’ place. So we worked our way through, helping wherever we could.” Steve sighed. “Never seen so much water in my life.”

Somewhere in the background, Bucky heard a bang, and Steve started to jump up, before he relaxed, and shook his head. “Man, you could knock first.”

Faintly Bucky could hear Sam saying something about ‘illegal phone calls’, and Steve rolled his eyes. “At least say ‘hi’.”

There was some thumping, before Sam appeared, kneeling next to Steve and leaning in so his face filled Bucky’s screen. “Hey, Barnes. Need to water any crops out there?”

“What are you wearing?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“Huh?” Sam sat back on his heels, glanced down at his big fluffy purple-and-white sweater.

“Yeah. Where the heck did you get that?”

“Hey, Ms. Mary-Jo gave it to me. And I’d like to see you make fun of warm, dry clothes after being wet for– what is it, five days straight?” Sam shook his head. “Man. I never seen anything like it, and I don’t want to again.”

“How are your friends?” Bucky asked. “Must be nice to see them again.”

Sam half-smiled, sitting back against the wall and leaning on Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. Just wish it wasn’t like this. Least Sammy’s okay. She’s six now. Last time I saw her was one time we came through Texas looking for you.” Sam stopped abruptly.

Bucky gave him a faint smile. “Headed for Mexico. Barely managed to lose you guys. So they know they’ve got a couple of wanted fugitives in their house?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, they’re good with it. You wouldn’t believe this, but we ran into Brandon on our way. Ri’s little brother. He’s with the National Guard, and we ended up helping him sweep some houses, rescue a handful of pets, some folks trapped in their car. Like seein’ Riley’s ghost, except he’s quiet, like Ri was loud. Heckuva soldier. He’d be proud.”

Sam lapsed suddenly into silence, and Bucky recognized the ‘hundred-yard stare’. “Hey, Steve. They feeding you alright?”

“Yeah. Good old home cooking. Kinda nice to be back…” Steve’s voice trailed off, and he shrugged, smiled slightly. “Isn’t home though. I’ll try to make it back soon, ‘kay?”

Bucky felt himself smiling back. “Okay.”

Steve’s face seemed to lighten, and Bucky could feel the warmth—as tangible as a hand-clasp—that passed between them. Then Steve gave Sam a little nudge. “I had no idea this guy liked Mexican food so much. He put spice in his 'hot 'n spicy' chili last night.”

Sam blinked. “Yeah, no one makes it like Rachel. But Ri liked it cooler'n me

There was a call of, “Sammy! Uncle Sammy!” in the back ground, and Sam jerked his head up. “Hey, I better go. Later, dawg.” He gave Buck a quick nod, and was gone without waiting for a reply.

Steve watched him go, then looked back at the camera. “He’s actually happy, you know.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. There was a long pause before he added, “Speaking of, thanks.”

Steve raised one eyebrow. “For what?”

“Remembering.” He shrugged. “Even when it hurts.” (Where did that come from?)

Steve shrugged, but Bucky could see the gratitude in his sudden smile. “When does it not?”

“You know what Dr. Dal says: ‘Wounds scar’.”

“And sometimes I’m glad,” Steve answered quietly. He lifted one hand as if to reach for Buck’s shoulder, like he would if his friend was right there in front of him. “How _are_ you doing?”

Bucky let himself actually stop to think about that. “I’m okay. You?”

“Could be worse.” He glanced away for a moment. “That storm…” He looked back, and Bucky could see fear and wonder written across his face. “I used to think the weapons people come up with were powerful. But nature can do… so much more. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He huffed and shook his head. “There aren’t really words for it.”

“Uh huh.”

“And everything these people have lost. Rachel and Jason’s house is half underwater. They got out with a suitcase each and that was it. But they have family, they have each other, they’ll be able to rebuild. Can’t say the same for a lot of folks.”

“Yeah.”

Steve blinked and gave him a faint smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky shrugged. “Long week.” He paused on hearing a loud gurgling growl. “And you’re hungry. You always get a little weird when you’re hungry.”

“I do not,” Steve protested, but Buck could see his mood lifting. “But I do think I smell lunch downstairs, so I should probably go eat.”

They said their goodbyes, and hung up at the same moment. (He didn’t know how they did that.) Bucky sat for a minute, before gently tossing the phone on top of the sketchbook, which lay just within arm’s reach. He hit the light switch and lay down, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder. As his eyes adjusted he made out the now loaded bookshelves and smiled.

Something Becca was fond of saying: _C’est la vie._

 

_Ain’t love ‘til it breaks you_   
_Ain’t real ‘til it shakes you_   
_Ain’t faith ‘til you fall on your knees_   
_We’re living and dying_   
_And laughing and crying_   
_And finding the beauty between_   
_It hurts, and heals, and it tastes_   
_Bittersweet_

_-‘Bittersweet’ by Paul Brandt_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Khawulezia:_ Hurry up.  
>  _isidlo sakusihlwa:_ supper  
>  _Masihambe_ : Let’s go.  
>  _Mholweni_ : Hi/Hello


	10. Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took three weeks to fight through. Plenty of pain, angst, and mentions of death and tragedy.  
> In memory of those 20 kids who were killed by the Mexico City earthquake, September 19, 2017, when their school collapsed.
> 
> Set September 19-20, 2017

_A gust of soft spring breeze swirled a cloud of pale pink cherry blossom petals around Steve and Bucky, where they sat on the front stoop of the Barnes’s home._

_“Mr. Walsh said he was going to cut it down if it didn’t bloom this year,” Bucky said._

_“I’m glad he didn’t.” Steve rested his chin in his hands. “When will we eat? I’m hungry.”_

_“When Dad gets home.” Bucky sat forward, peering toward the corner three blocks down, around which his father always came._

_“Bucky?”_

_Both boys turned to look over their shoulders as Becca slipped out the front door._

_She was wearing a little yellow dress with tiny white flowers all over it, her dark hair tied back with a green ribbon. She came up behind Bucky and leaned over his shoulder, draping her arms around his neck._

_“You look like spring,” Steve said._

_Bucky gripped her wrists and swayed back and forth. “And you smell like supper.” He made exaggerated sniffing sounds. “Maybe I should eat you before supper. Then I could eat your supper too.”_

_Becca squealed and tried to pull away. Bucky held onto her at first, adding growling hungry noises, so that Steve began to laugh. When he finally let Becca go, the little girl scrambled away, jumping down the steps._

_“Careful, Becca,” Steve called, starting to jump up._

_Bucky wasn’t worried, she could handle herself just fine. And she did, until she tripped on the last step, and fell onto the sidewalk._

_Her cries almost echoed off the buildings, ringing down the street. Immediately filled with guilt, Bucky sprang down to kneel beside his little sister, and tried to comfort her._

_“Aw, Becky, it’s okay. What did you hurt?”_

_“Well, this sounds pretty sad,” said a voice above their heads, and George Barnes stooped down to pick up his daughter. Still sobbing, she clung to him, while the boys stood uncomfortably, waiting for peace to be restored, and justice to be sought._

_In a minute or two Becca was only crying quietly, and Mr. Barnes, smiled down at Bucky and Steve. “Grab my briefcase, son,” he said. “Let’s head inside where we won’t disturb Mrs. Anderson’s cat. She said you could see the kittens at the end of this week.”_

_They climbed the front stairs, and Becca lifted her tearstained face from her dad’s shoulder. “I want to see them now. Kittens will make my knee feel better.”_

_“Well, how about some good roast beef and potatoes?” Mr. Barnes asked as Steve held the door for him, and he smiled, ruffled Steve’s hair as he passed. “Thanks, son.”_

_“How about ice cream?” Bucky asked. “That makes me feel better. And I won’t have to eat Becca then.”_

_Becca buried her face in her father’s shoulder again. “Papa, don’t let him eat me.”_

_Mr. Barnes’ laugh was deep. “I think he’d much rather eat what’s_ on _the table. You won’t have to worry.”_

_Mrs. Barnes came from the kitchen—wiping her hands on her apron and smelling of good things—to kiss her husband and take his hat and briefcase. “Supper will be ready in five minutes,” she said. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, boys.”_

_“How was school today?” Mr. Barnes asked, setting Becca down so he could shrug out of his jacket._

_“Bucky won all the foot-races today,” Steve volunteered._

_Bucky felt his father’s hand squeeze his shoulder. “Well done.”_

_“And Steve’s picture of the Statue of Liberty is on the wall by the blackboard,” Bucky said._

_The tall man with the often stern brown eyes, now gave Steve a warm smile as well. “You deserve that.” One of the twins started crying in the kitchen, and Buck’s father turned, then glanced back to raise his eyebrows at both boys. “Just don’t tell me you’ve been in any more fights, please.”_

_“Okay, we won’t,” Bucky grinned. Steve punched him lightly in the ribs._

Bucky blinked away the images of the past, refocusing on the sunlight spilling through the huge glass windows. They were in the upper levels of the lab today, above the Great Mound, looking out over Wakanda to the west. This was the fourth time he’d been up here, and he was pretty sure he would never get tired of the sight.

“Shuri? Can I ask you a question?”

“Of, course. Ask me anything.” The princess turned from her computer screen, and grinned wickedly. “Just don’t ask–”

“No. I mean…” Bucky looked down at his hand on the tabletop, where he was reflexively rubbing his thumb back and forth. “It’s kind of a personal question.”

He sensed her quiet stare for a long minute before she said, “Yes, you may.”

Bucky took a long slow breath. “When you… when you think of your dad… wh-what’s the first thing you remember?”

There was a dead silence, while Bucky’s heart thundered in his ears. He’d stepped in it now…

“I thought you were going to ask me where my boyfriend was.”

He blinked, and actually dared to look at her. But she was the one looking down at the table now, her eyes on her latest work. “He always said I was the smartest person in the world.” She paused and Bucky could see her smile. “Not the smartest girl.” She lifted her head, stared out over the country side. “He also gave the best hugs.”

Bucky smiled, and glanced back out the windows.

“What are you thinking about?” Shuri asked.

Bucky shrugged, and spun the top of his stool, so he could lean back against the table, and rest his elbow on it. “Dunno.” He shrugged, kept his back to the girl. “My dad. He was proud of me for joining up. Proud I was gonna fight, when he couldn’t.” He fisted his one hand, and stared down at the well-defined muscles and tendons of his forearm. He was feeling distant again. “When he died… I was either in storage or killing someone. And he probably still thought I was a hero.”

“Didn’t he fight in the first war?”

“Yeah.” Bucky felt Shuri’s eyes boring into his left shoulder blade.

“That is the way of war. Men do things they would never consider doing otherwise. Because needs must. You know that.”

Bucky swallowed, but could find no answer besides a one shoulder shrug.

“If your father had been taken prisoner, and tortured, and–”

“Don’t.”

“Would you blame him?” Shuri finished.

Bucky twisted his mouth to one side, knowing he’d walked into that one. “No.”

“If it was Steve–”

“Don’t.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice this time.

“But you wouldn’t blame him either.” Nothing fazed Shuri. “And don’t go saying, ‘I should have been stronger.’ You were as strong as you could be. Clearly you were strong enough to hear Steve’s voice after seventy years. You were strong enough to find your way in this world for two years. It doesn’t matter how much serum is your blood, or what your arms are made of. You are human and always will be.”

There was a silence, in which Bucky could hear her sitting back, no doubt with a satisfied try-and-argue-with-that smile.

“Is your brother human?”

“Oh, most of the time. Otherwise he’s part cat, and you know how selfish and arrogant they can be.”

There was a sound of someone clearing their throat, and Bucky was off his stool, spinning toward the stairway, automatically dropping into a defensive stance. Almost immediately, he relaxed, and met the bemused gaze of King T’Challa, Okoye a shadow behind him.

“What were you saying, little sister?”

“Well, selfish, no. Arrogant? Occasionally.” She leaned her elbows on the table, dark eyes sparkling.

“Well, next time I will try to warn your bodyguard,” T’Challa said, giving Bucky a nod. He was wearing one of his traditional black robes with the silver embroidery, and of course his silver tooth necklace, the picture of a powerful king.

Bucky felt his cheeks flush, but he nodded back.

“What are you working on?” T’Challa said, moving to his sister’s side, and Bucky saw her face light up.

How funny. The man who had once been bent on killing him, had just referred to him as his sister’s protector. Who said people couldn’t change?

A young man, with a confused face, who looked like he’d been running his fingers through his hair repeatedly, came hurrying up the stairway, and Shuri glanced up. “Princess,” he started, then went on in Wakandan too fast for Bucky to follow.

He watched Shuri’s face instead, and saw understanding, as well as exasperation. “Idiots,” he thought she mumbled. _“Ndiza kuza,”_ she said out loud.

She caught Bucky’s eye and made a face, then hurried to follow the young technician down to the next level.

“Show off,” T’Challa called after her. She made a rude gesture with one hand, and Bucky had to turn away to hide his grin.

“How are you today, _Ingcuka Emhlophe?”_

Bucky turned back to face T’Challa, setting his feet a little farther apart. “Could be worse.” He let a little smile curl one corner of his mouth.

T’Challa gave a slow nod. “In more ways than one, I’m sure. But you are happy here? You have everything you need?”

Bucky blinked, startled. Darn, he hadn’t meant to imply he was dissatisfied with his life in Wakanda. “Oh yeah. For sure. I mean, it’s really–”

T’Challa must have understood his fumbling, because he interrupted. “How long have you been here now?” T’Challa asked. “Eight months?”

“Over nine,” Bucky said quietly. “A lot longer, if you count time in cryo.”

“She could have fixed you a lot sooner, you know, taking the words out. She could have done it all at once.” T’Challa rested his hands on his knees, unconsciously assuming a kingly position.

“She once told me that.” Bucky frowned, thinking. “She didn’t explain why. Why she didn’t, I mean.”

T’Challa regarded him closely for a moment, before he said, “Dr. Daluxolo. It was when she said, ‘It’s just reprogramming.’ Which, from what I know, is true. But I remember Dr. Daluxolo was not so happy. ‘He is a man, not a machine or a computer.’ He was very insistent.” The king of Wakanda looked mildly amused. “For once she did not have an argument. He is a good man.”

“Oh. Dr. Dal, yeah.” Bucky’s mind was stuck on the phrase, _‘He is a man, not a machine’._ Funny, he could have sworn he’d heard Dr. Dal say that before, but… not out loud.

“He was a good friend of Zuri’s,” T’Challa went on, his tone dropping a notch. “Zuri was a priest. Daluxolo a psychologist. But they both care deeply about people. Cared,” T’Challa corrected himself.

Bucky glanced at him, saw the way he was biting his bottom lip, eyes on the table-top now. From what he knew, Zuri had been T’Challa’s mentor, a second fatherly figure, who had been killed right in front of him. Not counting ‘being frozen’ time (they needed a better phrase), the king of Wakanda was probably a few years younger than Bucky. And he’d lost plenty, too.

T’Challa lifted his head to give Bucky a quick smile, the moment of vulnerability fading. “The Doctor was actually a little nervous about working with you. He didn’t want to fail you.”

Bucky stared at him, blindsided by the latter statement. T’Challa got to his feet, and came toward Bucky. “I should find my sister and finish my business here.” He held out his hand. “You need to visit the city more often.”

Slowly Bucky grasped his hand, and gave a slow nod, not breaking eye contact. “Maybe. The farm is getting bigger. And everyone’s trying to tell me how to do it. Takes some time for this city boy to figure out.”

“You have a good head on your shoulders.”

Again his wording was something deep that Bucky had to actually process, so he simply nodded.

T’Challa turned and strode away, calling over his shoulder, “Just don’t let that sister of mine bore you too much.”

“Never!”

Bucky watched him go, giving Okoye a nod as she turned to follow her king. Alone for once, he walked through the sunlight, and pressed his hand against the window. The glass was solid and ever so slightly cool. He stared at his fingers, splayed out on the smooth surface: the hint of dirt under his fingernails (even though he’d scrubbed well, before leaving this morning), the rough strength in the lines of his knuckles, a scar under his ring finger he’d picked up he knew not where. He wondered if Steve knew.

His vision blurred a bit, from staring so long, and he blinked, letting his focus shift past his hand, past the glass, to the world outside. The great city of Birnin Zana sprawled through the lush valley, sun glinting off buildings that looked like they ought to be carved of the most ancient stone. Which, he supposed, vibranium was.

The sun was warm and bright, streaming over him, and he closed his eyes, tilted his head back to feel it on his face. Another little piece clicked inside him, heart or head, didn’t really matter. He was here, all of him, the boy, the man, the soldier, the prisoner, the fugitive, the redeemed. The broken, picked-up, Steve’s (always Steve’s) Bucky Barnes.

He felt his pulse in his palm, still pressed against the glass, and became keenly aware of the blood running through his body, the air filling, and leaving, his lungs. His heart beating in his chest—the same heart he’d been born with. Grown and altered, perhaps, but still there, ticking away. No matter how many times he’d lost hope, how many times he’d been broken beyond repair, he was still here. For whatever reason, this heart still beat.

***

Steve stumbled as a chunk of cement gave under his foot. He caught himself, secured his footing and paused, halfway up the mound.

It was well after dark; he actually wasn’t sure what time it was. At some point the rainstorm had moved on, growling away toward the mountains. He glanced back over the heaps of rubble, and the buildings that still stood against the sky, with conspicuous gaps between them. There were less lights here, and only small ones—some bobbing in the hand of a desperate searcher, others glowing still and steady, beacons of hope. Not that there was much hope left on the second night of searching.

He wondered where Sam and Nat had gotten to; he knew they hadn’t been able to keep up to his tireless efforts. He realized he was alone, for the first time in weeks. He opened his mouth to call, but no words came.

Steve wasn’t tired, at least not physically; he hadn’t done enough for that. And there were people. People who needed his help, and night was the best time for him to offer that help. Whatever it took.

He turned back to the heap of debris he was currently searching. He guessed it had been two or three stories, not one of those big apartment buildings, with all those people.

Steve swallowed convulsively, and heaved at a large wooden beam. That girl from earlier, she’d lost her whole family. She had clung to him, shaking all over, so hard. She hadn’t cried, not exactly, only wordless, gasping groans had escaped her lips. He could still hear them.

He moved quicker, tossing aside cement chunks, cinder blocks, plaster, twisted hunks of metal. He hardly felt the pain anymore; his hands had been cut so many times today, even with the gloves to protect his palms, which had almost shredded. They had been through plenty in the last three weeks.

A metal girder came loose too suddenly, and he staggered again. Some bricks or something crashed down into the hole he had started to create. With his hearing, he caught the deadened ‘thud’ of one piece, and stiffened. _Let it not be…_

For the first time there was hesitation in his movements as he pulled out a flashlight, flicked it on. Carefully balancing from one step to the next, he climbed, scanning, sweeping the beam of light back and forth, back and forth. Across glaring pale cement, warmer brick, dark iron rods, smashed wooden furniture…

The beam paused, swept back. A splash of color: pink, no, orange. _Dear God…_

He knew, he’d seen enough today, he’d seen enough in the thirty years he’d actually lived. But he had to confirm it, he knew the drill.

He had to put the light between his teeth, and climb with both hands and feet, to reach the crumpled body, half-buried in the rubble. (How had they missed it earlier?) Settling in an awkward crouch, he lifted away some more debris, needing to assure himself.

He froze. A low sound, somewhere between a moan and a cry escaped him. He stood for a moment, flashlight in one hand, chunk of metal pipe in the other. And then his knees gave out, the pipe clattered away on the pile. Steve Rogers knelt in the remains of a Mexican house and stared down at the body of a mother, curled protectively around her child. The unnatural angle of her head told part of the story, while the baby, still half-hidden in her arms, did not move.

He stared and stared and stared, until he was seeing nothing, nothing but the same thing over again.

The ‘quake less than two weeks ago. Harvey and Houston. Lagos. Sokovia. New York after Sandy. New York after Loki. And France, Germany, Poland…

The Commandos may have been a special squad, but time and again, they had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with regular troops. He remembered explosions, gunfire, and blood. He remembered sickness, starvation, and death. He remembered the Nazi death camps. He remembered the dead. He remembered too much.

Steve had killed with his own hands, not to mention with weapons _in_ those hands.

He had gone to war, he had picked his fight (because no one got away with hurting his friends), and he had poured himself into it. Like always.

Then he had lost Bucky and gone after Schmidt, seeking vengeance. He had happily destroyed HYDRA’s men, destroyed Schmidt, with no remorse. And then he had given up everything of his own, Peggy’s voice on the radio, he had sacrificed _himself_ for the people.

Nazis were bad guys. HYDRA was the bad guys. Loki was a bad guy. _“I don’t want to kill anyone. I just don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they’re from.”_   He was a good guy. He took out bullies; that was his life’s mission. But somewhere along the line, it got complicated. Wrong was hidden behind right, and right kept stumbling into wrong. The ones who were in the wrong weren’t always obvious.

And then there were times when you could blame it on no one. When the world caved in on its own accord, and you were helpless to stop it.

He remembered the dead. He remembered everything. After all, _accepting_ was not _forgetting_.

The pain was fierce, a burning, gnawing ache that filled him completely, a hollow filling. He felt… anger, fear, helplessness, but all numbed under a blanket of despair.

He bowed his head, and lifted one hand to rub across his face. It came away wet.

The tears fell faster and he clenched his hands into fists, trying to fight the horrible ache that gripped his throat. He tried to swallow, choked on a sob, and gave up on holding it together.

Alone in the dark, Steve wept.

***

It was a beautiful morning, even for a place as beautiful as Wakanda. Bucky sucked in a deep breath, as he straightened from the dishwater and set the last bowl on the little drying rack he had balanced between two of the stools from the front room.

Humming something he was sure was off tune, he picked up the wooden washbasin, and moved off to one side of his hut to throw out the water. When he came back, he sat with the basin between his knees to scour it with the last of the hot water from the kettle.

It had all become routine, and routine was comfortable, dependable. He glanced up at the sky, gauging the position of the sun. Time to let the girls out.

He crouched by the fire to bank up the ashes, then straightened, rolling his neck. He had spent much of the last two days helping Jongikhaya with some repairs to his hut, and had been braced in some awkward positions.

The sound of the cell phone ringing inside, made Bucky stop and cock his head. He doubted it was Shuri, so he should probably go answer it.

“Steve?”

Bucky heard no reply, only wind blowing and the faint sound of people talking.

“Steve?” he tried again.

A ragged intake of breath, before someone swallowed hard. “Hey,” Steve said hoarsely.

Slowly, Bucky let himself slide down the doorframe to sit on the front step.

 _“Ingcuka Emhlophe.”_ Fundani appeared in front of him. “Are we going to let the sheep out?”

“Go ahead,” Bucky said quietly, waving him away. “Steve, what- what’s going on? Are you okay?”

He heard Steve clear his throat, sniff a couple times, take another deep breath. Bucky bit his lip; he knew what Steve sounded like after he’d been crying.

 _“Esperanza._ I– No. I can’t- I can’t do this. They’re all- dead.” The words came unsteadily, like he was trying not to break down again.

“Who-?” Bucky breathed. He couldn’t mean Sam and the others–

“The people, too many.”

Steve was never hysterical, he had to keep things inside for a long time, and get hit pretty hard, for any kind of strong emotion to come through. Bucky ran everything through his head, the hurricane, and then the earthquake in Mexico. He knew both had been terrible disasters. Had something else happened?

“Where are you?”

A still-shaky but deeper breath. “Mexico City. There was…” Another deep inhale. “I’m sorry. There was another earthquake. In the city. So many people. Yesterday– No, day before yesterday. Tuesday.” A rustling sound and Bucky could picture Steve rubbing his hand along his jaw. “A seven-point-one, not an eight.”

“But in the city like that,” Bucky said softly, shaking his head, “it would be worse in other ways.”

“Over two hundred. Twenty kids killed at their school. Buck, I–”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and Bucky closed his eyes, letting himself picture the destruction, the heaps of rubble, Steve searching through it all, helping to free the survivors, helping to dig out the dead.

The dead.

Steve fought to protect the weak, to stand for the right, and to save lives. That was what he lived for. And in that business, success was measured in lives saved, failures counted by lives lost.

Bucky remembered that much from the war. Success was the result of team work, Steve preferring to slip into the background. But failure, failure was the fault of those in command. Of the leader, of Steve. And Steve, rightfully or wrongfully, always took failure personally.

People died, and Steve knew it. He might cover it up, he might not show it. But not showing wasn’t the same as not feeling.

People died, and Steve blamed himself.

Bucky swallowed convulsively, and opened his eyes to a blurry world. He knew. He knew about that.

He knew how Steve felt, right now, knew that ache in Steve’s gut, knew the blackness in his mind, knew what the voices of ghosts sounded like. He knew.

Something gave way in Bucky’s heart, something deep and strong enough to cross the globe and reach Steve; a river, but it was a river that went both ways. It was a depth of understanding like he’d never known, or couldn’t remember. This was something more than shared memories, or sensing the other’s emotions just because they knew each other so well. He knew that pain because it was his, and Steve knew it because it was his, and they both _knew_ that the other knew.

Bucky blinked, pulling himself back to the moment, listened for Steve. It took him a moment to realize that he couldn’t hear Steve’s breathing because it was covered by his. They were breathing in the same rhythm. Both a little shaken, both a whole lot broken.

Now it was Bucky’s turn to take a deep breath, let the words come slow and measured. “Stevie? I’m here. I’m right here.”

A little huff from Steve, somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. He sniffed. “I wanna come home.”

“Then come,” Bucky said simply, trying not to betray how the childlike wish broke his heart. “Let someone else do the work for a while.”

Three, four, five heartbeats, before Steve said, “Okay.”

That one word told Buck just how far Steve had fallen, and even as he felt like crying, at the same time he understood. Again. You couldn’t let yourself dwell on the hurt, the pain, the loss, you did have to get up and move on. But sometimes you had to walk _through_ a storm, to find the sun again.

“Good,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you soon then”

 _“Esperanza,”_ Steve murmured. “I called her Esperanza.”

Bucky frowned. That was Spanish for– “What?” he asked. “Who?”

“I thought she was dead too. Her mother was. Just a baby, not even a year old.” Steve caught his breath. “They had no way of telling who she was, so they asked me what her name was.”

“Esperanza,” Bucky whispered. “You said _Esperanza.”_

“I think she liked it.”

Bucky felt himself smiling, a short laugh escaping his lips. “Ya punk. She’ll have a tale to tell her grandkids. Named by Captain America.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” A long sigh of release, and Bucky could picture Steve’s shoulders dropping, the lines in his forehead smoothing out.

“What time is it there?”

“Uh, after midnight, sometime, I don’t know.”

Bucky shook his head. “Okay, go get some sleep, pal, and I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

Bucky was starting to pull the phone away from his ear, when he heard Steve ask, “Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

 

_‘Cause I wear my heart on my sleeve_  
_If you cut me I’ll bleed_  
_I know I cannot erase every mistake that I’ve made_  
_No, I never said I was an angel_  
_No, I never said I wouldn’t break down_  
_But life keeps on moving_  
_By now you should know, I’m only human_

_…_

_I’m still fightn’ for the future_  
_Cause I never wanna lose ya_  
_Yeah, I’ll keep on climbing_  
_If you’re by my side_

_-‘Human’ by Manafest_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan:  
>  _Ndiza kuza_ : I will come.
> 
> No, I did not really plan on this story becoming as much about Steve as Bucky, I just couldn't help but wonder how some of the pretty awful natural disasters of 2017 would affect him. Among other things. Their hearts are so closely linked though, that any real sense of peace and healing for one comes through the other. I think that's the real reason why they're both still alive. Not many people have the gift of a bond like that.  
> And maybe you think I'm getting this all wrong and it's just a lot of emotional crap, well, this is my interpretation of these characters and you've seen the world one way, and I've seen it another. I'm just giving these guys, and you, my best.
> 
> I want to offer a special thanks to Roméo Dallaire for his brilliant, terrifying, heart-rending memoir _Waiting For First Light_. And to everyone who fights on to find hope in the darkness.


	11. Heroes and Friends

The smell of cooked rabbit brought a rush of memories: a jumble of faces and voices, laughter and firelight, and Dum-Dum singing something.

“Got pretty good at cooking rabbits in Europe.” Bucky sliced the blade of his knife down the flank, the meat dropping onto Nontasasa’s plate. “Squirrels too,” he added. “They weren’t as good.”

“What about lion?” Mabhuti asked, using his hands to tear apart his own piece of roast rabbit. Actually Bucky was pretty sure it was hare, but whatever.

“Definitely not.” Bucky kept his face serious. “The only lions in France were in zoos.”

He held out a full plate to Khanyiswa and she smiled gratefully. _“Enkosi.”_ Settling between her children, she hesitated and cocked her head, looking almost shy. “Have you ever seen a… kangaroo?”

Between mouthfuls, Bucky regaled his guests with every crazy animal story he could think of. He enjoyed the sound of Khanyiswa’s laughter mixing with Mabhuti’s giggle and Nontasasa’s chatter. It was she who pointed out the beautiful colors the sunset was painting in the sky, which Bucky thought made a lovely contrast with the blue-green of her dress.

But the picture also made Bucky think of Steve, and wish he could be here too.

_The sunshine through the window made brilliant squares on the floor, which Steve kept staring at, fascinated. Bucky took another massive bite from his sandwich, and chewed as hard as he could, grinning at his sisters across the table._

_“Ick!” Becca squealed and threw her napkin across the table at him. “You’re disgusting, Bucky!”_

_“Children!” Winifred Barnes came hurrying back into the room. “James Barnes, stop terrorizing your sister, or I’ll make you stay in this afternoon, and Steve can take the girls to the park himself.”_

_“Aww, Ma–”_

_“And don’t call me ‘ma’!”_

_“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Bucky said, his mouth finally clear. Sufficiently cowed, he finished his sandwich quickly and quietly._

_They were headed to Prospect Park, Becca skipping beside them, the twins squealing in the wagon, when Steve asked, “Don’t you ever see the way the light works with the shadows?”_

_When Bucky looked at him blankly, he tried to elaborate. “The lines the window makes on the floor, in the sunshine. The shadows look so black, until you stare at them long enough and then you can see the floor. And then the light looks so bright... It's-it's… beautiful.”_

_Steve’s face reddened under Bucky’s stare, and he looked down, scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk._

_“I didn’t really notice,” Bucky answered honestly. He knew Steve liked that kind of thing, it was part of what made him such a swell artist._

_“Yeah, well.” Steve shrugged, lifted his head to wrinkle his nose at Bucky. “You notice other stuff, I guess.”_

A hand landed on his shoulder and he grabbed Nontasasa’s wrist, then quickly turned to smile up at her.

“Is Steve coming home soon?” she asked.

Bucky stared, before he laughed softly. Gently he tugged her down next to him, wondering if she could have any idea of what she had just said. “Soon. Very soon, I hope. Probably in a day or so.”

The little girl’s face brightened, and she hopped in place. “Will he draw a picture of me?”

“Of course! Just ask him, he’ll be happy to.” Bucky rested his hand on her smooth, tightly braided hair; loose it fell about half-way down her back. “What do you want it for?”

“To put on Baba’s grave so he knows how big I am getting.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, kept his gaze on the fire. “You miss him, don’t you?”

“I wish he could watch me dance with the other girls,” she said. “In a few years Mabhuti won’t remember him.” She was quiet for a minute. “I have pictures of him on my bracelet. Do you think Steve would do a picture of him for me too?”

“I think he’d be honored.”

There was a long quiet spell, but not heavy. Khanyiswa broke it with a whisper, “Mabhuti’s asleep. We should go home now.” She stood, hoisting the little boy up to slump against her shoulder, smiled at Bucky, firelight dancing across her face. “If you don’t mind?”

“No, you should get the kids to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Nontasasa protested. But she yawned as Bucky got up and pulled her to her feet.

“Could have swallowed the moon with that one,” Bucky teased, and he knew she was tired by the way she just stuck her tongue out at him, before shuffling to take her mother’s hand. _“Ndiza kubona ngomso.”_

Khanyiswa’s hands were now full, so she just smiled at Bucky again. _“Enkosi kakhulu.”_

_“Ndiyayonwabela.”_

Bucky watched them go, lifting one hand in response to Nontasasa’s wave. When they had disappeared around a corner, he sighed and turned to clean up the supper dishes. One nice thing about Africa, Bucky thought, as he tried to juggle a stack of plates and cups and dropped some: wooden dishes. Bucky’s were a set gifted to him by Nomlanga himself.

He rinsed them quickly in the bit of lukewarm water left in the kettle, dumped them on the shelf, then stood in the front room, staring aimlessly out the door at the flickering fire light. He felt like he was waiting for something, waiting… for Steve, of course. He suppressed a sigh, and decided to get ready for bed.

Check the animals on the way to the outhouse, check on the animals on the way back. Put out the fire… He stopped there, feeling the warmth of the embers on his arm, the little flames still dancing in the red glow. With a half-smile, he got up, padded into his hut, to the backroom, grabbed Steve’s sketchbook, _The Hobbit,_ his pillow and blanket, and headed back outside.

After stirring up the fire and throwing on some more wood, Bucky settled down, blanket thrown around his shoulders. In the uncertain light he opened the sketchbook on his lap.

_He and Steve sitting in a wagon, probably his, legs dangling, at least Steve’s were. Bucky’s arm protectively around Steve, they leaned together, smiling._

_A giant Christmas tree, covered in decorations, surrounded by presents._

_Bucky, in the outfield, gloved hand reaching up to catch a fly ball. One knee of his pants torn and a dirt smear across his hip._

_Anna and Elizabeth, peering over a railing, giggling._

_Bucky’s mom standing at the sink, elbow deep in dish suds, hair all tied up in a kerchief, head turned away, staring out the window. Her apron had little flowers embroidered on it._

Purple. Purple flowers, Bucky remembered. And Becca had put red flowers on hers. Becca was a good seamstress. He smiled.

_Bucky's dad standing on the dock, line in the water, fishing._

_Killer whales in the bay at Gravesend…_ Bucky was pretty sure that had been after Aunt Sarah died, and he must have been trying to cheer Steve up, because he remembered his friend’s face lit up with sunshine, and an immense relief as they laughed together.

Bucky swallowed hard, closed the sketchbook, stared into the flames. He’d always been able to help Steve then; he just hoped he could now.

He blinked suddenly, yawned, rubbed a hand across his face; Sandman working on him. He lay down on the well-packed earth, still giving off the sun’s warmth, and let his eyes drift shut.

He woke suddenly, his eyes snapping open, staring into the dark; he’d fallen asleep with his back to the fire and his hut. For a moment he lay still, his eyes taking in the stars, the earth, listening to the whisper of a night breeze.

This wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes he would wake for no reason, and be unable to go back to sleep, so he would either lie awake, or if dark thoughts haunted him, he’d go take a walk.

His ears perked up at a different sound, as of someone breathing, somewhere behind him. Bucky stiffened, instantly on alert, before he silently, smoothly rose up into a crouch and pivoted toward the hut. In the moment he was wishing he still slept with a knife… before the tension drained away. He rocked back on his heels, rested his arm across his knee, and gazed across the still faintly glowing embers at Steve.

Curled up in an uncomfortable looking position, still fully-dressed in his uniform and boots, his head pillowed on his duffle bag, Steve slept. An uneasy sleep, Bucky sensed, reading the lines in his face like a handwritten letter.

For a few long minutes, he watched his friend, feeling that old, familiar surge of love and protectiveness. Slowly he got up, gathering his bedding, and stepping softly around to bend and drape the blanket over Steve. He turned and crouched to bank up the ashes, heard Steve stir.

“Wah-?”

“S’okay,” Buck murmured, twisting to look down at him.

“Mmph. Buck…”

Steve squinted blearily at Bucky in the starlight, and Bucky reached to rub a hand over his hair. “Go back to sleep. I’ll watch your back.”

A sleepy smile crept across Steve’s face and he stretched out a bit more, one hand pulling the blanket a little further up his shoulder. Bucky smiled back, before stretching out next to him, rolling over to face out into the night. He could hear Steve shifting around, before his bulk nudged up against Buck’s back.

Bucky groaned. “Okay, punk, gimme some blanket then.” There was some more shifting and grunting, before they settled down, with Steve's shoulder—uncomfortable thanks to the uniform—pressed against Buck’s spine, and the quilt sort-of covering them both.

It had taken Bucky awhile to accept physical contact of any kind as potentially harmless, but he always knew Steve was different. Steve was... gentle friend, strong protection. Even in the days after he had first found Buck—still a fugitive, still haunted and hungry and afraid—a hug from _him_ , or simply a touch on the shoulder, had been like balm on an open wound. A sting at first maybe, before the familiar sense of comfort crept in. A sense of… home.

Steve’s warmth was already seeping through Bucky’s shirt, and he sighed, felt Steve do the same.

“G’night, pal.”

Steve’s reply was unintelligible.

***

Bucky made sure Steve woke to a large mug of coffee, and the smell of bacon beginning to sizzle. Other than a brief exchange of ‘hey’s, the two men didn’t really speak over breakfast.

In fact, they didn’t have a single conversation that lasted longer than a minute that day. Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he just didn’t. And Steve seemed content with his friend’s mere presence.

Bucky caught his half-smile at the writing on the coffee mug, one of a set Sam had given Bucky for his birthday: _We’ll be friends ‘til we’re old and senile… then we’ll be new friends!_ Bucky lifted his to read: _We’ve been friends for so long I can’t remember which one of us is the bad influence._ Steve caught his eye and Bucky leaned over to tap his mug against Steve’s. “Drink up, pal. You can help me do laundry.”

“The only reason you invite me back,” Steve muttered, attempting a joke, before he polished off the last of his drink.

Nontasasa and Mabhuti were the only ones to show up, _after_ the morning washing up was done. With a cry of, “Steve!” Mabhuti threw himself at the big man. Steve stiffened for a moment, as the little arms went around his neck, before he wrapped him in a hug, his blond head bending protectively over the dark one. Bucky could only imagine how Steve felt right then, so he collared Nontasasa and asked for her help pulling the load of washing together. No doubt Steve would be happy to fulfill her request, later. Right now he needed what only a little child could give him. Which Bucky knew all about, having gotten it from Khwezi more than once.

Normally Bucky would join the group of women, take the teasing, share some jokes, and entertain the kids. Today the four of them meandered down to a quiet spot along the river, and got wet. The clothes and things got clean too.

Bucky prided himself on figuring out how to do things one-handed on his own, but some days he was happy to get help. Especially when that help was Steve, and it was helping him as much as it helped Bucky.

“Remember how Mom used to do the washing in that big tub?” Steve asked suddenly. He caught the sopping shirt Mabhuti threw, and set about rubbing soap into the fabric. “She used that soap, what did it smell like again?”

Bucky paused, a pair of Steve’s jeans dripping in his hand. “Lavender!” he blurted. He smiled suddenly. “Lavender from that lady’s garden.”

“Mrs. O’Riley? No.” Steve made a frustrated noise and slapped the shirt, a few soap bubbles catching on the breeze. “Aw, can’t remember.” He sat back on his heels and looked over at Bucky. “Maybe I am getting old.”

“Still younger than me,” Bucky threw back. “And that’s our parent’s fault, not mine.”

It turned out to be a good day.

They built a chicken coop, Steve drew Nontasasa’s picture, and after the children were called home, late in the afternoon, the two men took a walk.

They ended up in Eden, where the butterflies were all gone, but the waterfall made rainbows when the sun slipped through the gathering clouds, and the moss grew thick and green around the pool. They took their boots off to dangle their feet in the pool, the water cold but not icy.

Steve glanced up at the rocky wall, over which the stream tumbled. “Ever tried climbing up there?”

Bucky tilted his head back, assessing the prospect. Maybe 20 feet, plenty of handholds and vegetation, but all slick with spray. “Only been here the one time with you.”

A moment of quiet, neither man looking at the other, before Steve cleared his throat. “Let’s do it.”

Bucky quickly stepped ahead of him, balancing between one rock and another. “Me first. You can catch me if I fall.”

He heard Steve’s sharp intake of breath, but knew he couldn’t take time for the mental gymnastics of wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. He stepped from one wet rock to another, until he was right up against the cliff, the spray wetting his left side.

He put up his hand above his head, felt for a solid hold, found one. _One hand, two feet,_ he reminded himself. He was just getting his grip, lifting one foot to find another support, when Steve spoke, almost in his ear.

“We don’t have to do–”

“Want to,” Buck interrupted. “Together.”

Neither spoke for a minute, while Bucky found a foothold and flexed his hand, prepared to swing off the ground. He hadn’t done any climbing with just the one arm, but, what the heck, it couldn’t be that hard. And he really did trust Steve without question.

“Okay.” Steve’s voice was firm, with no hint of the worry Bucky knew was somewhere under there. “It’s pretty straight up, so once you start, try not to stop.”

Bucky’s answer was to push off the ground and swing his right foot up to find another support. The shirt and pants he wore were loose, African style, easy to move in, and his feet had gotten a lot tougher, thanks to wandering around barefoot so much, but he quickly figured out that, yes, this was hard.

He could move only his feet until he was in a position steady enough to let go with his hand and reach up for another hold.

The first time he stretched his hand up, one foot slipped, and he gasped, before a strong hand pressed against his lower back, catching him.

“Hand first,” Steve said, so he found a rough place to grab, before steadying his feet.

“O-kay,” he managed to say, and the pressure eased to a light touch, giving him the courage to keep moving. Thankfully next time he had to shift his hand, it was to reach over the edge, to pull himself over the top. He knelt in the scrubby grass of the plateau that ran up into the foot hills, surprised to find he was breathing quickly, though he hadn’t come close to breaking a sweat.

He turned to grab Steve’s hand, hauling him up beside him, and somehow forgot to let go. They settled on the ledge, legs dangling, a few pebbles skittering down. There was the slightest tremor in Steve’s hand, and when he did let go, Bucky had to resist flexing his fingers. Instead he shuffled closer, ‘til there was maybe a few inches between their shoulders, and let himself relax.

They were high enough to catch glimpses of the country beyond the forest, with the mountain a silent sentinel at their backs, and the stream a chattering companion.

Bucky squinted at the clouds, closed his eyes to feel the breeze. “Rain tonight maybe,” he said.

Steve just nodded.

They sat for a long time, not speaking.

***

Steve woke slowly the next morning, and lay listening to rain pattering on the roof of the hut. Huh, first time he’d seen rain here, though the Lord knew he’d seen enough in Texas. He let out a long sigh and rolled over, then saw that Bucky was gone, probably checking on his goats.

Already Steve could feel his strength coming back, and not just because of Bucky’s delicious rabbit stew last night. It was that inner resolve, the fire of hope that kept him going in this crazy life.

He yawned and got up, shuffled into the main room. Clearly Bucky had been up for a while: a dirty bowl and spoon sat on the table, beside a box of cereal, and one of his notebooks, open. Steve chuckled a little over eating cereal after the hot breakfasts of most mornings. It seemed oddly modern and out of place, in a hut in the middle of Africa.

He ate quickly, and cleaned off the table: dishes in the washbowl, which he stuck outside to fill with rainwater, and cereal box on the shelf. He picked up the notebook, intending to close it and put it away by Buck’s bed; he did not intrude on Bucky’s journal keeping. As he glanced down though, his gaze caught on the words, _Dear Steve,_ at the top of the page. He paused and glanced up, as if expecting Bucky to be standing there, raising his eyebrows. But no. It was almost as if he’d left this out on purpose…

Steve’s eyes were drawn back to the page.

_Dear Steve,_

_You are my hero. Always have been, always will be._

_Back then everyone said you were skinny and weak and a little punk. Well, the last one was definitely true. Now, everyone says you’re big and strong and a brave soldier. And yeah, that’s all true._

_You still fight for what you believe in, you still defend the weak, you still save lives. And I know you always will._

_But… I see you break, I see you hurt, I see how hard you try to fix things you might have done wrong. You’ve seen some of the worst this world has to offer. And I still see you smile at a sunset._

_So when people say ‘hero’, here’s what I see: I see you._

_You’re my Captain, so I’ll follow you to the end of the line. You’re my friend, so I’ll keep making fun of you. You’re my brother, so I’ll always love you._

_I left you, you never forgot me. I punched you in the face, you wiped the blood off mine. I tried to kill you, you wouldn’t let me give up on life. So here’s the deal: I’m never gonna forget you, I’ll clean up the blood whenever I can, and I’ll never let you give up. Like climbing the cliff in Eden yesterday. We can do this: together._

_I don’t know if any of this is what I should say. But I felt stupid trying to do it out loud. And this way I could think while I did it._

_I think you were always my hero. And I want you to know that. Because you saved me, you caught me. My hero saved me._

_I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. Yeah, I’ve done a lot of things I wish I hadn’t. And I know I don’t deserve you. But you stick by me anyway. So I’m sticking by you. I’ll do everything I can to make a good reason for still being alive._

_Okay, I think school papers were easier than this. Only for you, pal, only for you._

_I love you, pal._

_Back with you to the end of the line,_

_Bucky_

Steve didn’t know how long he sat there (when had he sat down?) reading, and re-reading the clear handwriting that was so distinctively Buck’s. His hand was shaking slightly as he laid it on the page, and stared out the doorway at the mist and rain.

“Buck,” he whispered, without knowing.

He looked down at the letter again, then at the blank page opposite. He reached for the pen.

***

Bucky ducked into his hut, and stood dripping. “Steve?” he called.

No answer.

He squeezed the worst of the water out of his pants, before making his way to the back for a towel. He’d expected rain over night, but not all day too. Rubbing his hair dry, he wandered back into the main room and finally saw his journal, still lying open on the table. He paused, and swallowed hard. Had Steve read it? Had he said the wrong thing, and hurt Steve somehow? Was that why he wasn’t here?

Slowly, he moved to stare down at the book, the towel settling around his neck. His hand froze, hovering over the paper.

_Dear Buck,_

_Funny. Every word there I could write about you. You’re my hero._

_To everyone else you were strong, fast, smart, handsome. But I saw your incredibly big heart, the way you took time for weaklings like me. The way you knew stuff without being told. The way you made my mother laugh. The way you fought to get to where you are now. Of course only I and your poor sisters saw the jerk you are. Hmm, Sam would disagree._

_I guess we were both born to protect. When I first came back I thought that would be enough. But it wasn’t and everything started to fall apart. Before I found you. And I knew the real reason I was still alive._

_When people say hero I see a man with long dark hair, blue eyes, and a brilliant smile, surrounded by children and butterflies, kneeling down to examine a scraped knee and wipe away tears with his only hand._

_You once said you only ever wanted to make the world better. You have. Your words mean more than I can say. You make it all worthwhile. Thank you._

_I love you back._

_Your friend to the end of the line,_

_Steve_

It only took Bucky a few moments to spot Steve’s silhouette, blurry through the rain, leaning against a tree, looking out toward the river. Bucky walked across, hesitating a moment before stepping up beside him. Steve didn’t say anything, just reached out to pull Bucky into a hug. Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders and smiled.

He could feel Steve’s warmth through their wet shirts, where their chests pressed together, and he closed his eyes, rested the side of his head against the blond’s. The rain washed over them, drops running down Bucky’s face, cool and fresh.

At some point, Steve eased back, so he could look into his friend’s eyes, his smile like the sun slipping through the clouds.

“Thanks, pal.”

“Anytime, buddy.” Bucky discovered he was smiling back. “Anytime.”

They stood out there in the rain for a long time, but neither of the men felt cold.

 

 _Your heroes will help you find good in yourself_  
_Your friends won’t forsake you for somebody else_  
_They’ll both stand beside you through thick and through thin_  
_And that’s how it goes with heroes and friends_

_-‘Heroes and Friends’ by Randy Travis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan:  
>  _Ndiza kubona ngomso_ : See you tomorrow  
>  _Ndiyayonwabela_ : My pleasure
> 
> I really want to shout out to Carolyn and Rachael. Both sisters in different senses, and both giving me encouragement in their own ways. I couldn't do without you girls. Philippians 1:3 (And thanks to my brothers for driving me nuts.)


	12. Stay for a While, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short, but this chapter is a two-parter. Since it's a long weekend I have a little extra time and will get part two out on Monday. See you then!
> 
> Still last week of September 2017.

_Bucky and a few other 4 th grade boys were swinging from the branches of the one tree in the school’s front yard, and engaged in a furious debate over who was better: Lou Gehrig or Babe Ruth. Bucky was not a fan of the Yankees (no way, never), but he liked the man Gehrig seemed to be. He looked more like a hero ought to, anyway. _

_From their position, Bucky could also watch the other kids coming in the gates for the first day of school. He really hoped there would be some new boys in his class. All the others were Yankee fans, which disgusted Buck, and he stuck to his guns with the awful Brooklyn Robins._

_Even worse, over the summer all the other boys seemed to have converted to the camp of George Tunney, which Bucky had to regard as rank heresy. Jack Dempsey was the greatest boxer in world history, period. Everyone was calling for a match between the two famous fighters and Bucky had already begun to horde his small allowance for bets. He had no doubts…_

_A kid, coming up the walk, fell suddenly, and the movement caught Bucky’s eye. The next moment he dropped from his branch and was jogging across the yard. Georgie-porgy, the resident trouble maker now of the 6 th grade, was looming over the smaller kid, though everyone was smaller than Georgie. Not good._

_Bucky just caught the skinny, tow-headed boy’s words, “–I did_ not _run into you. You tripped me.” He stopped a few yards away, staring in amazement. Was he_ looking _for a fight?_

_Now back on his feet, the boy stared up at Georgie, totally unafraid. He was at least a couple inches shorter than Bucky, but he didn’t sound much younger. For a moment Bucky hesitated. If he stepped in, he’d be on Georgie-porgy’s hit list from day 1, not the nicest way to spend a school year._

_“You little piece of horse–”Georgie started angrily, raising a fist._

_“Watch your language,” the new boy interrupted, and Bucky jumped forward. No way was he going to let someone that brave stand alone. (And he’d always wanted to give the bully a taste of his own medicine.)_

_Georgie landed one punch on the other kid’s shoulder, knocking him down again, before Bucky was there. He gave Georgie a hard push, just as the bell began ringing._

_“Linwood!” came a teacher’s bellow, and he was forced to turn away, but not before giving Bucky a glare fit to kill. Bucky returned the favor._

_“Well, that’s that,” he said, turning back to the new boy. He had to be new, Bucky had certainly never seen him around before. “And I didn’t even get one swing in. Grab my hand.”_

_He pulled the other boy up with ease, but did his best not to look surprised. “Gee, I wish I had your guts. Talking back to Mr. Georgie-porgy. You must be new here. You’ll have to watch out for him now, but if you ever need some help just yell.” He put out his hand. “You can call me Bucky, everyone does. ‘Cept for my mother, of course, she calls me James.”_

James Buchanan Barnes _was a mouthful in any case, but his first name was after his grandfather, who had still been alive when Bucky was born, and Buchanan was no name for a tough boy. So ‘Bucky’ he became, and ‘Bucky’ he remained._

_“Steve,” the other boy said, shaking his hand, and finally meeting Buck’s gaze. His eyes were so blue they startled Bucky. They were the color of the sky, which he had heard of, but never thought possible. Bucky felt the smile stretch across his face._

_“Okay, Steve. What grade are you in?” He looked pretty small, maybe…_

_“Three,” Steve murmured._

_Bucky stopped, right in the hall, and turned to stare at him. “No fooling? That’s great. Same as me, though I’m in fourth, but third and fourth are in the same room. I can show you around. Maybe teacher will even let you sit with me. Come on.”_

_They were almost to the classroom door, when Bucky stopped again, and looked hard at Steve. “Dempsey or Tunney?”_

_The other boy looked kinda dazed, but his answer was quick. “Dempsey, of course.”_

_Wordlessly, Bucky threw his arms around Steve in a jubilant hug, surprising even himself. Maybe this wasn’t going to be just another school year after all._

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky tossed a handful of stones at his friend, some of which splashed into the water. “Dempsey or Tunney?”

Steve glared at him. “You’ll scare the fish away,” he growled under his breath.

Bucky laughed. “Dempsey or Tunney?”

Steve still looked peeved, but his answer was quick: “Dempsey, of course. Greatest boxer of all time.”

Bucky laughed again. “The most important question I had to ask you, that first day we met. You said Dempsey, and I thought heaven had sent me an angel. When Dempsey lost, I swore he’d been shafted, and you said something about referees knowing what they were doing. That was the only time I can remember actually punching you.”

“Black eye.” Steve grimaced, then smiled. “I’d forgotten about that part.”

_I gave you more than a black eye the next time I hit you._

“We also got into a fight over who was going to get to marry Juliet Angelo in fifth grade.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh.” He felt he should say something more, even if he didn’t remember. “Was she Italian?”

Steve took his question easily. “Yeah. She had the longest hair of any girl in school, straight and black and shiny. Wonder if she ever found her ‘Romeo’.”

Bucky gave a short laugh. “I always thought that was one of the cruelest endings to a story. And kinda stupid. Killing themselves over each other.” He toyed with a piece of grass, watching where Steve’s fishing line disappeared into the water. “That’s not love,” he muttered to himself. He caught Steve’s eye, and hunched his shoulders, staring out over the lake. “Why are you laughing?”

He heard Steve stop chuckling, then shrug. “You still have plenty of opinions. I guess I… I missed that.”

Buck snorted. “You just missed a good argument, because I’m the only person who could ever beat you at one. Though Peggy knew how to get around you too.”

He heard Steve take a quick breath, and glanced over, suddenly worried. But no, Steve was leaning forward, staring at the water, gently toying with his line. Then: “Gotcha!” He struck and reeled his fishing line in, quick and sure. In a minute he had a gleaming fish flip-flopping in his hands. He pulled his hook out of its mouth, cracked it’s head on a rock, and held it up by the tail, grinning at Bucky. “See? I still know how to hook one kind of creature.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, a wet, scaly, smelly one.”

“Smells good in a frying pan,” Steve countered.

***

There was an air of excitement hanging over the entire village that day, like nothing Bucky had sensed before. As he sat cross-legged by the fire, sniffing at the cheese and bread toasting in the frying pan Steve had placed over the embers, he watched Jongikhaya’s family bustling around their hut. They almost seemed to be decorating with colorful streamers.

A crowd of men and children passed, heading out onto the plain in the direction of the forest. Every one of them carried something: wooden stakes, bundles of more colored flags, shovels, buckets. They were singing a call-and-response:

_“Usuku luyeza.”_

_“Siya kuba silungele!”_

_“Ngemini yokubhiyozela.”_

_“Siya kuba silungele!”_

_“Kunye siyavuya.”_

_“Siya kuba silungele!”_

“What do you think it’s all about?” Steve asked, breaking Bucky’s concentration. `

Buck shrugged. “No clue. Planting doesn’t start ‘til the end of the month. The big festival for Bast was back in the spring. I mean fall.” He sensed Steve’s smirk and flicked a pebble at his friend.

“You’re aim is terrible today.”

This time Bucky nailed him in the arm.

“Hey!” Steve protested, just starting to lift the first sandwich out of the pan. “Keep that up and I’ll make you wait for the next one.”

“Al’ight, al’ight.” Bucky caught the grilled-cheese easily, then squeezed it a bit too hard and had to catch a string of melted cheese in his mouth. He downed the sandwich in four bites.

Steve slapped another sandwich into the pan, then reached underneath it to turn the leaf-wrapped fish roasting in the coals. “Remember Russia? I got sick of fish, out there.”

“Yeah, this…” Bucky waved his hand at the fire and frying pan, “really reminds me of those days. There were some good days out there, weren’t there?”

Steve sat back, nodded slowly. “Yeah, sitting around poring over maps, and talking strategy.”

“Talking smack, ya mean.” Bucky propped his elbow on one knee and rested his chin on his fist. “Did you lose your compass?” he asked suddenly. “When the plane… you know?”

Steve lifted his head to stare at Buck, who flinched inwardly, but held his friend’s gaze.

“What made you think of that?” Steve asked, softly.

Bucky shrugged. “Dunno. Just remembered that I gave it to you, right after you rescued me. Knew a captain couldn’t do without one. ‘Specially to put a picture of his girl in.” He smirked.

Steve had an odd expression on his face, before he suddenly got up, and disappeared into the hut. Bucky stared after him, suddenly worried… before his nose caught the smell of just-about-to-burn toast. Quickly he reached to flip the grilled cheese sandwich in the frying pan, accidentally burning one finger. He flinched, before letting his hand dangle over his knee, trying to ignore the pain. He was good at that after all.

When Steve came back, he looked somewhere between happy and sad; one of his normal expressions, Bucky realized with a pang.

“Here,” he said, tossing something to his friend, that just for a second Buck thought might be the old compass. But he saw in the air that it wasn’t, and caught it, wondering…

A wooden medallion, the right size to fit comfortably in his palm, with a large star carved in the middle. The mere style of the star—and the half-dozen much smaller ones around it—told Bucky immediately it had been done by Nomlanga. The wood was pale yellow, but the carved-in parts were stained black, so that the stars stood out. So did the words around the rim, in Wakandan script, that took Bucky several minutes to translate. He’d gotten pretty good at the language itself, but the alphabet was still something of a struggle.

_“Kukho… iinkwenkwezi… ezilikhulu… ukukukhokela…, kodwa… enye… kuphela… iya… kukukhokela… ekhaya,”_ he sounded out aloud. He paused, stared. “Hey. _Kukho iinkwenkwezi ezilikhulu–_ This is something Dr. Dal said a couple times. 'There are a thousand stars to guide you, but only one to bring you home.'” Bucky glanced up at Steve. “Where did you get this?”

“Dr. Dal gave it to me. Back in July.” Steve watched him for a moment. “You know that saying?”

“Yeah.”

“Then keep it.”

“Okayyy… Wait, what?” Bucky closed his hand over the smooth, polished wood, light, but strong. “But wasn’t it a birthday present?”

Steve half-smiled. “Got that already. But you should really have it. Because I have this.” He put out one closed fist, and let his fingers open.

“Son of a–” Bucky barked a short laugh. “Danged thing made it through after all.” He reached to drop the medallion in Steve’s palm and pick up the compass. The case was rough, dented, the buckle tarnished and scratched. He flicked it open with his thumb; a familiar gesture. Peggy’s picture stared back at him; except for being black-and-white it was like the war was yesterday.

Bucky bit his lip, glanced down to the actual compass face, saw the arrow swing. “No. Way.” He checked the sun, shook his head again. “It works? Are you sure this is it?” He looked up at Steve. “I mean, it got frozen in the ocean too, didn’t it?”

“Well, the old newspaper photo got ruined, so they gave me another. But if you take that out–”

Bucky hesitated a moment before carefully doing so. He laid the scrap of paper to one side and picked the compass up again, stared inside the lid.

_J.B.B._

“You said, ‘Better keep this, so you don’t get lost next time.’ I said, ‘What d’ya mean “next time”?’ Didn’t realize until ‘til I found the initials there, that it was actually yours.” Steve paused, as if struck by a new thought. “You… don’t want it back, do you?”

“I-I mean,” he went hastily on, “if you want it back now, you can–”

“No,” Bucky said, quietly but firmly interrupting. “It’s yours.” He kept his head down, while he fitted Peggy’s photo back in over top of his initials (had he done that with his knife?), and snapped the compass shut. “You keep it.”

He pressed it into Steve’s palm, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. “I just follow you anyway.” Realizing how corny that sounded, he grabbed the star medallion and tossed it in the air a couple times. “I’ll keep this in exchange. Deal?”

Steve closed his hand over the compass, and smiled faintly. “Deal.”

***

It was Dr. Lin who explained what all the activity was in preparation for.

“The king’s birthday,” she said, stretching her legs where she sat beside Bucky under a fig tree, watching his little flock graze. “Every year we celebrate with a day of athletic competition for the whole country. This year, the River province is hosting it.” She raised her eyebrows at Bucky. “You will be right in the middle of it.”

“What kind of events?” Steve asked, peering out from under his arm, with which he had covered his eyes while he napped.

Bucky glanced down at him. “That wouldn’t be fair, you know. You’re enhanced.” Steve ignored him.

“Oh, there are races, short ones and longer ones and ones for the children. There are jumping and throwing competitions, and wrestling matches. There is always an exhibition from the Dora Milaje. And before the sun goes down there is a big football game. Anyone can join in and there are usually five or six balls on the field at once.”

“And that will all be down on the plain there?” Bucky asked, trying to picture it.

“Yes, at least half the country will come.” Dr. Lin smiled. “My husband is often a judge at the wrestling. He will be missed this year.”

Dr. Dal had been travelling for several weeks around the world, so his wife had been coming for Bucky’s weekly therapy sessions. She was a tall, strong woman, who could be direct and blunt, but was always quick to see the humor in a situation.

She was eyeing the two men now, glancing from Bucky, to Steve, and back again. “Perhaps this year,” she said, sounding highly amused, “King T’Challa will have a run for his money.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, and swapped glances with Bucky.

But before they could ask another question, Dr. Lin got up suddenly. She plucked her headscarf from her shoulders and wrapped it around her hair in quick practiced movements. _“Ndiyavuya ukuba ulapha, uCaptain._ I hope you have found what you are looking for. I will see you both tomorrow. _Sala kakuhle.”_ Without even waiting for their farewells, she strode back in the direction of the village, tall and straight as a spear.

“Reminds you of the Dora Milaje, doesn’t she?” Steve murmured.

“If I was a lion I’d be scared to meet her alone,” Bucky responded. “She could tear one apart with her bare hands.”

Steve chuckled suddenly. “Dr. Dal judges wrestling?”

“Wish I could see that.” Bucky settled back against the tree again. “Maybe I should go in for that. One arm ought to be enough of a handicap.” He caught Steve’s eye and made a frustrated noise.

Steve looked away. “Sorry,” he muttered. Buck shook his head. Steve was no good at hiding what he thought; he still hated Bucky’s one arm.

“Arm wrestle. Loser has to read three chapters of _The Hobbit._ Come on, I don’t have any money I can bet.” Steve gave a startled chuckle. _Mission accomplished._

After Bucky won, and accused Steve of throwing the match, and Steve challenged him to another go, which Bucky again won, barely, Steve slumped back against the tree.

“Just like it used to be. You beatin’ me at everything.” He caught the chunky paperback his friend tossed to him and sighed, smiled, but did not continue.

Bucky sat back and closed his eyes, before snapping them open again.

“Buck!” Steve was glaring at him. “Can’t you find a bookmark somewhere? Why’d you dog-ear this? Do you realize how hard I worked to find these for you?”

Bucky laughed suddenly. “I’ve always done that. Haven’t I?”

Steve blinked. “Yeah. Drove me nuts.”

Bucky grinned, and closed his eyes again. “Thought you liked things that didn’t change.”

A sharp exhale, followed by a half-smiling mutter of, “Jerk.”

“Punk.”

Steve snorted.

_‘In two days going they rowed right up the Long Lake and passed out into the River Running, and now they could all see the Lonely Mountain towering grim and tall before them. The stream was strong and their going slow. At the end of the third day, some miles up the river, they drew in to the left or western bank and disembarked.’_

Bucky let Steve’s voice carry him away.

 

_Long time since I’ve seen your smile_  
_But when I close my eyes, I remember_  
_You were no more than a child_  
_But then so was I, young and tender_

_…_

_Stay for a while_  
_Well, it’s good to see your smile_  
_And I love your company_  
_Stay for a while_  
_And remember the days gone by_  
_For a moment it can seem just the way it used to be_

_-‘Stay for a While’ by Amy Grant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Usuku luyeza_ : The day is coming  
>  _Siya kuba silungele_ : We will be ready  
>  _Ngemini yokubhiyozela_ : The day of celebration  
>  _Kunye siyavuya_ : Together we celebrate  
>  _Ndiyavuya ukuba ulapha, uCaptain._ : I’m glad you are here, Captain.  
>  _Sala kakuhle_ : Goodbye
> 
> Course no one knows when T'Challa's birthday is so I'm making this up as I go along.  
> That thing about the compass I read somewhere (like everything) and immediately decided it was canon. I wrote [True North](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/17813768) in Steve's Scrapbook for it.


	13. Stay for a While, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry. I did NOT plan on getting wretchedly sick over the long weekend, and being rushed back to work so I want to do nothing but come home and sleep. Also this chapter was like fighting quicksand, my head was totally disconnected, but I hope it worked. Sorry it's short too.

_We loved baseball._

_We went to a Dodgers game once, when we were living on our own. Can’t imagine where Steve got the tickets. It was against the Phillies. Someone hit an inside-the-park home run and the Dodgers won._

_I hit an inside-the-park home run once, I just remember one of the boys screaming at me to run, run, run._

_When we played on the sandlots, they’d let Steve keep score. He was always smart about weaknesses in the opposition. Like in pickup basketball games at the gym._

_We played something with the Howlies once. Football?_

“Did we play a game with the Howlies once? Wait. Were there kids too?” Bucky was frowning intensely, as he glanced up at Steve. It was his turn to wash up since Buck had done the cooking that morning; Steve was quicker at that anyway.

Steve looked up, smiling. “Yeah. Soccer game. Mostly,” he added. “Dum-Dum was more into football so there was definitely some tackling involved. I did a picture of it.”

Bucky jumped up with a grin, and hurried to grab the sketchbook from inside. That was exactly what he hoped Steve would say.

The sun had barely dragged itself over the horizon and already the village was bustling. Everyone’s animals would stay closed in today, so that was one less thing for Bucky to worry about.

He found his heart felt light as a feather as he sat in the dirt, just to the left of the doorway, and leaned back against the wall. He flipped quickly to the pictures he hadn’t really looked at yet; these were like the finest of candies to be enjoyed slowly and thoughtfully. He wanted to make them last as long as possible.

Aunt Sarah, Aunt Sarah and Bucky, Bucky and Jim making snow angels, a whole crowd of people… Bucky stopped and smiled. Like always Steve’s drawings were clear and neat, even when capturing the rough-and-tumble excitement of a game with a ball. Among the crowd of kids of all ages, and a few other adults, Bucky could pick out Monty, Gabe, Dum-Dum, Jim, Frenchie…

“Where was this?” he asked, looking up to find Steve watching him.

“France. Little village took us in and fed us. Put us up in real beds too.” Steve cocked his head. “The two of us didn’t play though. We sat in the sun and talked to this little old man whose son was in the Resistance. At least, I talked to him.”

“I fell asleep on your shoulder,” Bucky said. He smirked at Steve. “Come on, I haven’t forgotten everything.”

“Do you remember that you drooled on my uniform?”

Buck stared at him, feeling a light flush creep up his face. “Wha-? Did I?”

Steve had turned away to put some elbow grease into scouring the kettle, or was he avoiding Bucky’s eye? “If you know what’s good for you…” Bucky began.

“Come on,” Steve said, and, oh yes, he was smirking. “What do you _think_ happened?”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Lying?!” Steve jerked around to give him his best wide-eyed wounded look. “I never lie.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” Bucky snorted.

“C’mon. Do I ever lie to you?”

Bucky sighed. “No. But… you could be kidding.”

“I could be.”

There was a silence, while Bucky stared at his friend, waiting. But no more information seemed to be forthcoming. So Bucky decided to set the sketchbook aside, jump to grab the kettle out of Steve’s hands, and tackle him into the dirt.

***

The sun was shining out of a hazy blue sky, and Bucky could hear Steve humming something upbeat, that sounded vaguely familiar. He was about to ask, when it hit him: he had not heard Steve singing anything in a long, long time.

“Steve!”

“Bucky!”

Buck blinked, quickly turning to wave at Umkhulu, Khanyiswa, and the kids. Khwezi broke from the pack to run and throw himself at Bucky. “Hey!” Bucky laughed, bending down to rub the little boy's hair, and get a hug around the neck. “You excited?”

_“Ewe! Ewe!”_

Umkhulu laughed. “These _ezincinci_ sleep little.”

“Little kids, little sleep,” Bucky shrugged, and Umkhulu cackled until she couldn’t breathe.

“Well, _masihambe,”_ Bucky said, taking Khwezi’s hand, and turning in the direction of the masses of people already flowing into the plains between the village and the forest.

Mabhuti, now perched on Steve’s shoulders, bounced excitedly. _“Masihambe!”_ he cheered, making his mother laugh. Nontasasa had the worst time containing herself. As they walked in a group, she was the one skipping around and around, jabbering nonstop to her mother. After the third time walking backwards ahead of them all, and nearly knocking someone over, Steve made her walk backwards next to him, so he could guide her. That was sufficient entertainment for a while.

To Bucky, being plunged into a crowd this happy and boisterous, was rather like wading through a warm, deep, deafening river. But not one that pulled down, rather one that carried him.

There was laughter, and shouting, and singing, and words of greeting. There were delicious smells already coming from the food stalls, even though it was still morning, mingled with hints of dust and sweat, more of which would come later.

And the colors! It was as if everyone had conspired to wear their most brilliant clothes, proudly displaying the tribe of their heritage. Bucky glanced down at his own green robe, which had been a gift from the elders in the village, combined with a dark blue scarf tied over his left shoulder. He definitely blended in. Well, except for being white.

_“Ingcuka Emhlophe! Mholweni!”_

“So good to see you, _Ingcuka Emhlophe.”_

“You will enjoy yourself today.”

All the smiling faces around him that paused and then flowed on.

Steve received an equal share of greetings and jokes; and questions about whether they would participate in any of the sports. He, of course, stuck out like a goose among chickens, with his blond hair, and wearing blue jeans with his combat boots.

What Bucky found hilarious though was the way Mabhuti kept a fistful of Steve’s hair in a tight grip for balance, whenever he decided to lean off in one direction or another. When Steve caught Buck laughing, he glared, then rolled his eyes and shrugged, which made Mabhuti squeal and nearly lose his balance again.

“The children’s races and games are first,” Khanyiswa said. _“Sifanele siphuthume.”_

“Lead on,” Bucky said.

Nontasasa had her mother’s hand now, tugging urgently, and the group followed in a snaky line through the crowds.

“Reminds you of Coney Island on Independence Day, doesn’t it?” Steve said.

Bucky smiled. “Or the World’s Fair.”

Steve laughed and pointed to a hover craft zipping by overhead. “There’s your flying car.”

***

The races were run on a straight track, marked out along the bottom of a hill where the spectators could sit. There was a small grandstand erected to one side, which Bucky guessed would be for royalty and elders. He had heard T’Challa was around somewhere already, busy mingling with his people.

There was a footrace in progress as they broke from the standing crowds, and Bucky paused to watch a small skinny boy with a crooked smile win easily.

“Boy’s race first,” Umkhulu said, before walking to a spot near the bottom of the hill, close to the action, and taking a seat.

“Like a field day at school,” Bucky mused, dropping down beside her.

Steve sat beside him, letting Mabhuti tumble off his shoulders into his lap. “Hey, where’s Nontasasa?” he asked suddenly.

“Gone to change and line up,” Khanyiswa said. “She is running with the youngest group of boys first. Then she will run with the girls.” She smiled proudly. “She is fast. She will do well.”

“What?” Bucky stared at the woman. “No kidding.”

“She wanted to surprise you both.”

“Wow,” Steve said. “I bet she’ll win.”

“Well, I ain’t betting against her,” Bucky said.

“I bet she wins both.”

“Me too.”

Steve groaned in response and Bucky laughed. “You’ll have to find someone else to sucker.”

Watching the contestants of the next race line up, Bucky immediately picked out Nontasasa. She had let her hair down, and stood shoulder to shoulder between two boys. There were two other girls in the lineup as well, both with short hair. One of the boys was almost a head taller than Nontasasa, but most were about the same height.

There was a loud bellow from one of the referees and the runners broke. Bucky leaned forward, as Khwezi jumped out of his lap to stand and yell. It was easy to keep an eye on the headful of long black hair, out in front, where it stayed the whole fifty yards.

 _“Sisi! Sisi!”_ Mabhuti kept shrieking, and when she crossed the finish line easily in first place, he started to bolt down to greet her, but Steve nabbed him just in time.

“Wait, she’s in the next race too. She will come back to us after that.”

“I will go with him,” Fundani said, jumping up, and looking at Khanyiswa. _“Ndinga?”_

 _“Ewe, enkosi. Enkosi kakhulu,”_ she said smiling at him.

 _“Masihambe!”_ Fundani exclaimed, grabbing Mabhuti’s hand. Khanyiswa gave each of them a quick kiss on the cheek, before they skipped off toward Nontasasa, who was chatting with a few of the boys she had just beaten.

Steve leaned back into the incline, propping himself on his elbows, watching the two boys with a smile. Bucky wondered if they were thinking the same thing.

Avi jumped to sprawl across his chest, then roll into his lap, and Steve laughed and sat up to wrestle with him. Bucky grinned and leaned over to grab one of Steve’s arms, trying to help the kid out.

“Hey,” Steve protested, as Avi got a good grip on his other arm. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

“You really think I’d help you gang up on a nine year old kid?”

“Yes?”

“For shame, Captain Rogers, for shame!” Bucky lay back, pinning Steve’s arm under him so Steve was forced to do the same. With his hand free, Bucky was able to shove it up under Steve’s shirt, dancing his fingers across Steve’s stomach.

“Race starting,” Umkhulu said, cutting the squealing and laughter short.

As they cheered Nontasasa to another win, Bucky had one of those outside-looking-in moments. Umkhulu, him, Steve, and Khanyiswa, sitting in the grass, Khwezi and Avi, jumping up and down and clapping, with Fundani and Mabhuti right next to the track doing the same. It was like a family.

A funny, patch-work sort of family, but when he blinked, and the race was over, and he glanced around at all the people around them: young and old, short and tall, boys, girls, men, women, grandfathers, grandmothers, babies… it came over him quite suddenly. These people cared about him, and didn’t that make them the kind of family that really counted?

Yes, he had met some Wakandans at the market, and other places, who didn’t seem to like him, but weren’t those folks part of a family too? He remembered not liking some of his cousins, and the difficult times during the Depression. It took all kinds to make a world.

In the hubbub of greeting the triumphant Nontasasa, Buck glanced over at Steve. His friend seemed to sense his stare and turned his head, then he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Happy?” Bucky asked.

Steve smiled. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

Bucky shrugged. “Just wanted to be sure,” he said softly.

***

Steve found that he was enjoying himself even more than he’d expected, and not just because Bucky was here. He was still amazed by so much of the Wakandan technology, but it was the customs and traditions that fascinated him the most; and the strong, noble people who made him smile with their friendliness.

He jumped up to lift a radiant Nontasasa off her feet with a hug. Another girl, who seemed to have been following her, gawked up at him, and he smiled over Nontasasa’s shoulder at her, a little embarrassed.

“Bucky ran a lot of races when we were kids,” Steve said, setting her back on the ground. “But you might be faster.”

“Hey,” Bucky said. “What d’ya mean ‘might’? Of course, she is.”

Just then there was a stir in the crowd, and then everyone was scrambling to their feet, and clapping and shouting. Steve caught a glimpse of the Dora Milaje’s red uniforms. “It’s T’Challa. And Shuri’s there too.”

There was a bustle around the grandstand, and then Steve saw the king standing up at the top, with his wife, his mother, and a few older people, whom he guessed to be elders.

It was amazing how everyone went quiet enough for T’Challa’s few words to be heard so clearly. Steve’s Wakandan wasn’t good enough to keep up, but he could tell that T’Challa was happy to be here, if a bit self-conscious, and he hoped everyone would have a good time.

The great shout: “Wakanda forever!” made the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand up, as the king saluted his people, and his people saluted him back.

Umkhulu eyed Bucky as everyone settled back down. “You honored guests. Why you not sit with king?”

“Were we supposed to?” Steve asked, suddenly worried. He hoped they hadn’t breached some essential point of etiquette.

“We’d rather sit with you,” Bucky said.

She grinned suddenly, her smile, as always, just like a little kid. “Ha! Honored guests sit where they want.”

Steve chuckled. “Then we’re right where we should be.”

They spent much of the day in the same spot, except for hunting up hot food for lunch, and the children occasionally wandering off with their friends.

There were races for the grown-ups too, all of them with both men and women, and the promised wrestling. During lunch there was a brilliant exhibition by the Dora Milaje, which had Steve and Bucky swapping looks.

“Thank God they’re on our side,” Buck muttered.

“I think you mean: ‘thank God we’re on theirs,’” Steve whispered back.

“They’re better trained than me,” Bucky answered, which made Steve wince. He suddenly remembered fighting Bucky, _the Winter Soldier,_ and that moment when he realized he was facing a man who could match him strength for strength.

Steve watched the powerful women move: leaping, spinning, twirling their spears effortlessly in one hand. He wondered how many hours they spent training, and if T’Challa had ever sparred with them.

Then there was long jump, and high jump, and spear throwing; the last of which had Bucky comparing everyone to Steve throwing his shield, and being very critical.

It made Steve laugh, to see Bucky joking and being sarcastic. He knew it would never be the way it had been: Bucky would never be that mischievous boy, who ruled the track, and the girls fell over each other to talk to. But there was still plenty of humor hidden under the layers of his dark past, and Steve treasured every time it came out.

The sun was sliding toward late afternoon, when the events seemed to stop and there was a great deal of bustle around the royal grandstand.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asked, stretching a crick out of his back, and snitching a handful of Umkhulu’s salted nuts. She squawked, and slapped him, but he just smiled.

Nontasasa sprang up, her face suddenly glowing. “Soccer game!” she said.

***

It was late when Bucky finally hit the lights, and he lay down, stretching his legs out with a long sigh. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could hear Steve roll over and match his gusty exhale.

The post-game meal had been a feast at Khanyiswa’s, along with a dozen other folks from the city. Everyone had shouted, and laughed, and eaten until they could burst. T’Challa had stopped by and endured some good-natured ribbing about the soccer game.

An image popped into Bucky's head, and he chuckled.

“What?” Steve asked.

“You. Beating T’Challa to that ball. Seriously do you even know how fast we can run?”

“Never timed myself.” He heard Steve roll over again, yawn. “Over 80 miles-an-hour, at least. You could have matched him, too.”

“Nah, I figured I’d wait for your pass and score the goal. Get all the glory.” He heard Steve chuckle, and smiled without meaning to. “Stick around for a little longer?” he asked suddenly. A lump filled his throat, preventing him from continuing, and he lay still, waiting.

There was a long minute of quiet, then: “Sure, Buck. For as long as I can.”

 

 _Long walks, long talks after dark_  
_We vowed we’d never forget_  
_Now it’s hazy_  
_Time takes its toll_  
_And time alters our view_  
_It would be nice to spend some time with you_

_-‘Stay for a While’ by Amy Grant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Masihambe_ : Let’s go  
>  _Sifanele siphuthume_ : We should hurry.  
>  _Ndinga?_ : May I?
> 
> Hope that wasn't too messy!  
> The story of the soccer game in France was partly inspired by a beautiful story Let in the Sun by PR Zed (przed).


	14. I'll Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: formerly titled Stand By You, but as soon as I heard the song "I'll Fight" I knew I had to use it.  
> Wow, this one hit me, but not in the way I expected.  
> I intend the greatest respect to all the people: concertgoers, security personnel, first responders, and hospital workers who worked so hard to save lives that terrible night. You are true heroes in this world. 
> 
> In memory of those who died the night of October 1, 2017. May you rest in peace.  
>  _VEGAS STRONG_

_When Bucky glanced up, and across the street, Steve had disappeared. He blinked, looked again, then turned slowly in a circle, taking in the entire street. No sign of a skinny tow-headed teenager with a bag of newspapers over one shoulder._

_It was so unusual that Bucky paused, and lifted one hand to push his hat back on his head. They never moved on to the next street without the other; whoever finished their side first would come over to help the other, no exceptions._

_“Dang it, Steve,” he muttered, jogging down the sidewalk, glancing this way and that, peering down the alleys between the houses._

_He caught the sound of someone cursing, and hesitated a moment, cocking his head to pinpoint the sound. Across the street, three or four houses ahead._

_He was hurrying now, but it was the distinct sound of Steve’s voice, “What for?” followed by a_ thunk _of flesh and bone meeting something hard, that made him bolt into a run. His newspaper sack slapped his back as he swung around the corner of a house into the alley._

_He took in Steve, face down on the ground, a ragged young man sitting on him, blood on Steve’s face… He let his shoulder lead the way, sending the attacker sprawling with a satisfying grunt, before he followed through with the rest of his body, stepping all the way over Steve._

_Bucky did not feel like facing off with a bully now, so he spun to pull Steve up, wincing at the blood smeared across his chin. “Come on. Aunt Sarah’s not going to be happy about that cut.”_

_Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other fellow getting to his feet, and he turned quickly, prepared to fend him off._

_“Hey.” It took a minute to recognize him, but only because he was so changed, so thin and dirty and_ angry _._

_The boy barked a laugh. “Well, if it isn’t Bucky and his little pal. Just my luck.”_

_“Gus? Gus Tracey?” A hundred memories of training together in the boxing ring flashed through Bucky’s mind. After Steve, Gus had been his closest friend through high school; they’d be down at the fight club three or four times a week. He was the best fighter Bucky had ever known, though a weight-class up, so they had never had official matches against each other._

_Since Aunt Sarah had gotten sick Bucky had been too busy helping her and Steve to make time for his sporting hobbies. Still he’d missed Gus after the Traceys had moved last year. He wondered how the heck the other fellow had ended up here, mugging people in alleys._

_“What are you doing here?” he blurted, taking a step forward and holding out his hand._

_Gus’s burning, hungry gaze met his, and he swore._

_Bucky blinked, too startled to respond when Gus rushed him, tackling him to the pavement and knocking the air out his lungs._

_He might have been finished before the fight even started, if it wasn’t for Steve, who leaped to grab Gus’s arm, turning his attention elsewhere. Gus rolled off of Bucky, letting him spring to his feet, though it took him a moment to collect his wits._

_Unfortunately Steve had forgotten Gus was a lefty and was getting his face pounded. Bucky could not hold back a yell as he tackled the other boy, throwing him off Steve._

_A small part of him was getting angry, as he planted himself between Gus and Steve: how dare he attack Steve?_

_Gus rolled to his feet and they stood facing each other, almost automatically adopting the fighter’s stance. Bucky could read anger, pain, humiliation in his old friend’s face, and above all a pinched, gnawing hunger that made his heart hurt._

_“You don’t have to do this,” he said, hardly knowing what he was saying._

_Gus’s only answer was to spring at him, but Bucky was ready now, his hands coming up, as he stepped to get his front foot outside._

_Bucky’s biggest challenge was Gus’s emotional intensity, but it was also an advantage. Every punch was harder, but his focus was too tight. As quickly as he moved, he kept leaving openings._

_It was a game of footwork really, Gus keeping Bucky on the defensive, Bucky fighting to keep his front foot outside. The best either of them could do was land half a punch every dozen swings._

_Gus took Bucky down, with a neat trip, and then they were rolling on the pavement in a dog-fight. In the back of his mind Bucky hoped Steve had had the sense to leave, but at the same time he knew his friend better._

_He was on the bottom, grappling for a hold on Gus’s left fist, when Gus made a sudden movement, hooking his left arm around Bucky’s upper right and grabbing his left wrist in his other hand, shoving Bucky's wrist away._

_Bucky felt the pop, and a cry broke from him, a terrible pain sweeping down his left arm. He froze, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to move it, to take stock of the actual damage. He felt Gus’s weight shift off him, and he blinked up at his former friend, suddenly realizing his vulnerable position._

_Gus’s eyes glittered, but with anger or pain, Bucky never knew. He had one weapon left in his arsenal, the meanest move of all, and he used it now. He whipped a kick at the place where Gus’s legs met, and the other fellow folded like a wet shirt._

_Only then did Bucky take in the sounds around him: a women’s voice shouting somewhere above him, and Steve anxiously calling his name._

_Bucky shut his eyes, trying to focus on controlling the pain. “I- I think he broke my arm,” he murmured, trying not to even move his lips. “Hurts like the devil.” He peered up at Steve then, seeing the bruises blooming on his face, as the realization of what Gus had done washed over him. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”_

_“I know,” Steve said gently, pulling off his jacket. “Which one?”_

_“Left.”_

_“We gotta get out of here,” Steve whispered, and Bucky managed a nod. He kept his jaw clenched tight as they made a sling for his injured limb, and Steve’s gentle hands pulled him to his feet._

_“I gotcha, pal,” he murmured, and Bucky tried to straighten up, stand on his own. He caught the flicker of a smile on Steve’s lips, as his friend gathered up the paper bags and slung them over his shoulders._

_The stepped out into the street, and a man came busting out of one the houses, all red-faced and in a bluster. All Bucky could do was stare at him, and think,_ Oh great, someone called the cops _._

_“Alright, what are you boys doin’, raising Cain and waking people at this hour?” He glared for a moment, before his eyes softened. “Hang on, are you hurt?”_

_“Probably broke his arm sir,” Steve said. Bucky shot him a glare, then regretted moving his head so fast. “Fella jumped me in the alley, and he… helped me out,” Steve continued. He turned to whisper in Bucky’s ear. “Let him take you to the hospital. I can finish delivering the papers. Only two streets, plus the extras. I’ll be fine.” He gestured to his cheek, and made a painful attempt at a smile. “As long as I don’t run into any cops.”_

_“Just tell ‘em you met Jack Dempsey in an alley,” Bucky answered, but it was a feeble joke and he could not smile. They hadn’t met Jack Dempsey, they’d met Gus Tracey. And that was enough._

_Steve squeezed his good arm, in silent understanding._

Something thwacked against Bucky’s shoulder, startling him from his reverie, and his hand was flying out before he realized it was Steve.

His fingers stopped about six inches from Steve’s throat, but Steve didn’t seem to notice. He just looked into Bucky’s face. “Sorry. I should have said something first.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “We’ve been in one too many fights, haven’t we?”

For a moment Bucky could not speak. It was Steve’s use of ‘we’, including himself in that potentially-dangerous-if-startled category, the way he understood Buck’s kneejerk reaction without a word.

“Not too many when I’m fightin’ for you.” He loved watching that smile spread across Steve’s face. Of course he would never regret one time he had stood up for his friend. He just regretted Steve getting in some of those fights in the first place.

“Okay, that means you get to finish the last three chapters.” Steve tossed _The Hobbit_ into Bucky’s lap, and settled back with his head on Bucky’s shins, laying his new pad of sketching paper in the grass.

Bucky chuckled, and a fleeting image of them doing the same thing in Prospect Park crossed his memory. Though they weren’t sitting around waiting for the laundry to dry back then. “Fine, Mr. Baggins.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to close his eyes, as Bucky flipped the book open near the end.

***

_‘As all things come to an end, even this story, a day came at last when they were in sight of the country where Bilbo had been born and bred, where the shapes of the land and of the trees were as well known to him as his hands and toes. Coming to a rise he could see his own Hill in the distance, and he stopped suddenly and said:_

_“Roads go ever on and on / Over rock and under tree / By caves where never sun has shone / By streams that never find the sea / Over snow by winter sown / And through the merry flowers of June / Over grass and over stone / And under mountains in the moon._

_“Roads go ever ever on / Under cloud and under star / Yet feet that wandering have gone / Turn at last to home afar / Eyes that fire and sword have seen / And horrors in the halls of stone / Look at last on meadows green / And trees and hills they long have known._

_‘Gandalf looked at him. “My dear Bilbo!” he said. “Something is the matter with you! You are not the hobbit that you were.”_ ’

“Who is?” The low rumble of Steve’s voice distracted Bucky, and he took a breath, glanced up from the book at his friend.

“Hey, what do you think?” Steve sat forward, turning his sketchpad to face Bucky. It was definitely the Three Musketeers: Fundani standing with Avi on his left and Khwezi on his right. But Bucky was suddenly laughing.

“I guess that’s what happens when I read battles and swordfights when you’re sketching.” All three boys were depicted wearing cloaks and chainmail shirts, with their swords thrust high in salute. Bucky cocked his head. “Did you ever think about illustrating children’s books?”

Steve laughed, and pulled the pad of paper back, then when Bucky just kept staring at him, he looked back up. “What? You’re not serious.”

“Well, did you ever _think_ about it?”

Steve shrugged. “Not really. The only time I ever get to do this is when I’m here with you.”

“Need to come back more often. And stay longer than a week.” Bucky gave Steve a fond smile. “Didn’t I say you’d be famous one day?”

Steve made a face. “But you didn’t expect it to be by fighting, did you?”

“Only in Brooklyn.”

He smiled at Bucky. “Get back to reading, there’s like two pages left.”

They both laughed a bit over poor Bilbo Baggins coming home to discover everyone thought he was dead, and auctioning off his goods, the sort of thing they could imagine all too well.

But Bucky found himself biting his lip as he read the last few paragraphs.

_'”Then the prophecies of the old songs have turned out to be true, after a fashion!” said Bilbo._

_‘”Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should not they prove true? Surely you don't disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don't really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!”_

_'”Thank goodness!” said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar.’_

Bucky sat still for a minute before slowly letting the book fall closed.

“Would you ever want to go home?" Steve asked suddenly, looking up. “I mean, back to Brooklyn? If you could for any reason.”

Bucky cocked his head, opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I’ve been back.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “After D.C.?”

“No. I mean, yes, I did go then. For a couple days. But they sent me there once. On a mission.” His words slowed, but he forced them to keep coming. “Young man. Dark hair. Perfect shot. Just one.” He swallowed hard. “But I didn’t go back. To- to HYDRA, I mean. I thought I was looking for something. Held out as long as I could. I remember a kid fighting in an alley. Three against one. I didn’t… kill anyone.”

“Anything else?” Steve whispered.

“The drugs. Kicked in at some point. Or kicked out. Whichever. You know.”

He could hear Steve swallow. “Yeah.”

From things he’d told them, Dr. Dal and Dr. Lin had figured that HYDRA had used some drugs like a leash to drag him back, making him addicted to them, the desperate hunger. He remembered—in that hazy way a lot of those things came back—trying to fight through the withdrawal, but never making it.

“After D.C. I had to go back. Had to see if there was anything left.” He dared to look up, offer Steve a crooked little smile. “Just a shopping center with a plaque out front. You know: _‘Steve Rogers lived here’._ The park was better. The view at Gravesend. A song I heard. But I guess I knew you’d come looking for me. So I moved on. Again.”

“We weren’t exactly gone for a year’s expedition to kill a dragon.” The pencil dropped from Steve’s fingers, and he stared into the distance.

“Might have been easier.” Bucky scrambled to his feet, leaving the shade of the sycamore tree, to check how his clothes were drying. The sun was hotter today, and the steady breeze was definitely helping. He turned over a few pairs of pants draped on top of the bushes along the river.

He paused to wave at a group of children and elders sitting along the riverbank; he was pretty sure it was Khwezi who jumped up to wave back, before being pulled down again.

Smiling again, Bucky walked back to sit beside Steve. Picked up the book, tossed it a couple times in one hand. “Guess it’s time to start the big one.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Sam was pretty put out when I told him I hadn’t even seen the movies, never mind read the books.”

“Shuri said she’ll make me watch them when we’re finished.”

“That might take some time,” Stave answered absently, bending back over his drawing.

They were sitting in companionable silence, when Steve’s cell phone rang.

***

Steve could not quite hold back a groan, as he shifted to pull it out of his back pocket. It was Sam, of course.

“What’s up?”

“Is Bucky there?”

 _Huh?_ “Yeah. Did you want to-?”

“Put it on speaker.”

Frowning, Steve did so, exchanging a glance with Buck. Strange.

“Hey, Barnes,” came Sam’s voice, a little louder now, and there was a strange tone in it that made Steve close his eyes. _No, no, please, no._ “Don’t let Steve leave Wakanda. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing any of us can do. We already split up for a few weeks, to take a little break. You need to stay put, Cap, ya hear me?”

“What do you mean: ‘nothing we can do’?”

He heard Sam’s long gusty sigh, felt his stomach drop. “You’ll hear about it soon enough. Hang on a sec, let me turn the TV up.”

There were rustling sounds, and then the voice of what had to be a TV anchor. “…deadliest mass shooting in modern US history. Police say a sixty-four-year-old Nevada man, you see his picture there, opened fire last night on a country music festival. He opened fire from the thirty-second floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel, across the street from the concert hall. Police say he was armed with at least ten rifles from that vantage point. Country music star Jason Aldean was playing for thousands of fans—twenty-two thousand fans—just after 10 PM last night—Sunday night—when the gunman began unloading hundreds of rounds into the crowd. A concert goer captured a video of that moment…”

Steve wasn’t even breathing. He heard the sounds of a song playing, and then a burst of rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. A sound he recognized instantly: machine gun fire.

“Some at the concert thought it was fire-crackers, some thought it was something wrong with the audio. They said it took them just a few moments to realize what was happening…”

Another man’s voice, audio of screams and gunfire backing him, describing the moments as they tried to figure out what was happening. “…there were actually bullets coming down on the deck of the stage.”

The anchor: “Eyewitnesses say the gunshots continued for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. Fans describe utter chaos in those moments, panicked people, desperately running for their lives, desperately trying to find some place to hide. But the gunman just kept shooting from the broken window…”

The sound muffled and Sam spoke. “In Las Vegas last night. Over fifty people dead. Over five hundred injured. By the time the police busted into the guy's hotel room, he’d already shot himself.”

“What the hell?”

It was Bucky’s whisper that made Steve blink awake. He sucked in a sudden gulp of air. “Please. There must be something–”

“No.” Sam tone was gentle, even as the words sliced Steve’s heart open. “It’s done. Nothing we can do now. There’s no one left to go after. The police said he wasn’t connected to any terrorists or anything.”

“You really think HYDRA lasted all this time by letting the police know what they’re doing?” When Steve glanced over, he saw Bucky was staring down at the phone, eyes burning holes in it.

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “I called all those numbers, and… I actually talked to Maria Hill. Don’t ask me how, I don’t even remember how I tracked her down. They’ve got a couple people looking into that side of things. But even if they find something… It would have to be a pretty extreme case for them to risk calling us.”

Steve swallowed back his words of protest. There was a long silence.

Then Sam’s voice, heavy and tired. “I’m sorry I had to tell you this.”

“Thank you anyway.” Steve suddenly wished Sam was there, not alone in Mexico. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. Got a call from my mom. She and Pops are visiting Ri’s family in Brenham so I might try to sneak in for that.”

“You should,” Steve said, quietly.

“I like the outlaw vibe. Suits you.” But Sam’s joke fell flat. “Hey, I’d better go.”

“Yeah,” Steve managed to say. “Talk to you later.”

With a quiet, “Bye,” he was gone.

Steve sat frozen, the echo of the TV footage ringing in his ears. _Now this?_ Now _this?_ He felt Bucky moving next to him, but his friend didn’t say a word, just reached out to put his arm around Steve, pulled him close. They sat for a long time without speaking, holding on.

***

Bucky could see Steve’s inner turmoil, as they sleepwalked through the rest of that day. It only got worse when Steve started looking up the news reports himself on his phone.

Buck wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for him to watch all that footage, it was like watching Steve hurt himself. The rattle of the gunfire, the screaming and crying, the images of people being carried on makeshift stretchers, people commandeering vehicles to rush victims to the hospital.

Of course, he kept trying to keep Bucky from seeing and hearing it, but Bucky wouldn’t leave him alone; taking care of Steve mattered more than his own comfort. He wasn’t even quite sure how he felt about it. It was certainly horrific in the sheer numbers: 59 dead, over 500 injured. He could picture the view from that window where the gunman had stood, sighted down his rifle, remember how it felt. He’d been there, done that.

It made his stomach hurt.

It only got worse when the ‘where was Captain America when we needed him?’ comments started to show up.

Bucky was folding laundry when he heard Steve make an odd choking noise. He found Steve sitting at the table, face gone white, looking exactly as if someone had stabbed him. Of course Bucky knew what that looked like.

When the comments disintegrated into ‘where was Captain Traitor?’ and ‘this happened because he wasn’t around to protect his country’, Bucky simply took Steve’s phone away. Abandoning the last few household chores, Bucky did the only thing he could think of. He dragged Steve out for a walk.

At least, it started out as a walk. Bit-by-bit the pace increased, as Steve’s pent up anger and grief found an outlet, until he put his head down and bolted. He ran with everything he had, pouring himself into every step, his rage at an unfair world. He seemed to not even know Bucky was there.

Buck simply kept the pace, a shadow of Steve’s every move. He had always felt ungainly running with just one arm, but as he’d done it more and more, he’d found the ways his body balanced out. He liked being able to stay with Steve, even push him.

They must have run for hours, through the open savannah, Bucky nudging Steve in a long loop that wound its way back toward home. Bucky found the sweat cleansing, the ache in his muscles satisfying. Both men were soaked and weak-kneed when they slowed to a trot, then a walk, before they topped a ridge and found themselves staring down over the valley.

It was a view Bucky had never seen before, looking up the river past the villages, to the misty hint of Birnin Zana, the sun lowering behind them, gleaming off the river, burnt orange light staining the grass and trees. In truth, it was breathtaking.

Steve stopped suddenly, stood still, looked over the beautiful country spread out before them. Bucky paused, just behind his left shoulder, not quite touching his friend, letting him breathe.

“Why?”

A single syllable carried away by an evening zephyr.

“I don’t know.”

He could feel Steve’s attention shift, taking in the fact that Bucky was standing beside him.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

Steve turned his head, and Bucky saw the sadness, deep as an ocean, dark and cold. But something in his eyes, seemed to lighten, just a bit, a spark fighting its way to the surface, as he looked at his old friend.

Bucky realized that he was going to have to _say_ something out loud this time. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come out wrong.

“You’ll always make the world a better place, you know. But you’re human. You can’t be everywhere at once. You can only do the best where you are. You don’t have to be perfect, pal. You just have to care. Some things aren’t up to us. I know you’d give yourself a thousand times over, rather than one of those people get hurt. You’ve done it before. But this… wasn’t the time.” Bucky swallowed convulsively, reached to lay his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“I hope that day never comes, but if it does, I know you’ll make the right choice. Just know I’ll follow you the whole way. I’ll always be on your side.” He looked away, out across the countryside. “The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’ll follow him to the end of the world."

 _Where you wanna go_  
_I'd love to take you there_  
_Wish that I could make the road easy_  
_I wish that life was fair_  
_Don't wanna see you cry_  
_Even when it rains_  
_And I hope you don't forget this_  
_You were born for better things_

_But if you ever fall down straight to the bottom_  
_And you can't get back where you started_  
_With no strength to stand_  
_Gonna reach for your hand_  
_When the going gets rough, r_ _ight when it's hurting_  
 _I will be there t_ _o help any burden_  
_Any place any time_  
_You gotta know for you I'll fight_

_-'I'll Fight' by Daughtry_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no translations. Weird. 
> 
> So I know I've been taking a lot of real world events and casting them in the light of the MCU and these characters. As I hope is clear, I mean NO disrespect to anyone involved with these terrible tragedies. After I read Casablanca by RevenantAvenger90, I became fascinated with how these fictional superheroes might respond to and deal with things like natural disasters, or mass shootings. Things that happen outside their control. I hope my representations are at least plausible for these characters, and apologize profusely if you see it as OOC. 
> 
> I used footage from CNN in my descriptions of the TV reports.
> 
> Also hope this isn't too messy. I wrote some of it, and did my research, at one in the morning.  
> Thanks for reading, everyone!


	15. I'll Be the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I began to think about what kind of memories/thoughts Las Vegas might stir up for Bucky... Ugh.  
> This one's heavy on the angst for sure. (And for some reason I love it, it was almost effortless to write.)  
> Warning:Intense nightmares and emotions.

_He stood in the rain, his hair plastered down against his skull. The cold water ran down his face, over his cheeks to hit his mask. He could hear the endless plinking of raindrops against his metal arm, glanced over to watch them run down to gather and fall from his fingertips. His eyes followed their descent, noted the miniscule splash of one drop among the many, into a pool of dark red._

_The red, where did it come from? He blinked, softening his focus, taking in the spatters of blood being washed off his boots, the trails of crimson, watered down to rust._

_The first body was a girl, with dark skin and black hair in a hundred tiny braids, dark empty eyes open to the sky. Her throat was slit, a single perfect cut, the arterial blood brilliant against her neck._

_A dark-skinned man lay beside her, face down, one arm flung across the girl. Only trained eyes could see the perfectly placed bullet hole in the back of his neck._

_A slim black woman, in a blue-and-green dress stuck to her body, was curled in the fetal position, except for her head, which was twisted at an awkward angle. Her nose was broken._

_A big man with blond hair sprawled on his side, half-covering two other small bodies. His face was bruised and bloodied, a cut running down his jaw to become a red slash against his neck._

_His heart stuttered in his chest, underneath the leather harness and heavy protective vest. The ground tilted under his feet, and he flung out one arm, his right. He glimpsed the flash of the knife blade, blood smeared across it._

_Wrong! Wrong! This was all wrong!_

_Horror flooded his body, the grip of the knife burning against his palm, the gun at his back a lead weight dragging him down, down. A sea of red rising to his neck, he would drown, blood filling his lungs. He tried to fight it, to keep his head above the surface, but he was frozen._

_A wordless scream formed in his mouth as he focussed all his strength to thrust out one hand. His flesh hand broke the surface, into a blast of ice cold._

_The panic, the blood, he was drowning in it. His throat closed off, he could no longer breathe. He was dying… dying…_

_Something warm wrapped around his bare hand, the shock jolting his entire body. He gasped, his body tensed for the searing pain of the electrical blasts._

_The echo of a word:_ _“Soldat…”_

_A strangled cry tore from his throat. “No-!”_

“Bucky!”

He jolted upright, his hand tightening frantically around someone else’s. He could feel the sweat on his body, as he doubled over, gasping, his chest heaving with the effort of taking in enough air to satisfy his greedy lungs.

“Buck. Listen to me. It’s okay, I’m right here. You’re okay, just breathe. Can you do that? Breathe. Come on, pal.”

He tried to concentrate, to focus in on Steve’s voice, but the images and sensations were too fresh, too real. A huge lump filled his throat, and he tried to swallow, coughed, choked on a sob ripping its way through his chest.

“Bucky. Buck, shh. Hush, it’s okay.” Two strong arms wrapped around him, firm, but oh so gentle. A hand pressed the back of his head, lightly running over his hair.

Bucky shoved his head against Steve’s chest, hand tangling in Steve’s shirt with a death-grip. He could feel the hot tears all over his face, his mouth open in a fight for air between the wild, groaning sobs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this looked as ugly as it felt. He was caught all over again, torn apart in the grip of his demons, the ones he had tried so hard to leave behind. Pain, heartbreak, death, all the work of _his_ hands—lives undone by his doing.

“Shh, Buck. Shh. It’s okay, pal. It’s okay. Easy, Buck. Shh, now.” That big hand stroked his hair in a steady, even rhythm, before it stilled, and his other hand ran down Bucky’s back, up and down, up and down. Bucky could feel the life, the warm strength radiating off of Steve, even as his own body shook with the pain and shock of what he had seen. What he had _done_ _._ Above his head, Steve’s soothing litany went on.

He was crying and choking and breathless and broken; his heart was being torn out of his chest.

Steve hold never faltered; his arms stayed firm around Bucky, even as his hands moved in a constant physical reminder that he was not alone.

“I’ve got you, Buck. I’m with you. It’s okay, pal. Shh, Buck, shh.”

And somehow between Steve’s voice and Steve’s hands, Bucky found his heart steadying. There was firm ground under him—even if he was half-sitting, half-kneeling on it—and something to hold onto, someone who wouldn’t let go.

He shifted his other knee under him, so he was actually kneeling in front of Steve, hunched over his friend’s crossed legs.

“Deep breaths,” Steve whispered. “Come on, pal. Easy, Buck, easy.”

Now, Bucky was able to actually hear the words, and try to follow them. Okay, take a breath; he managed two short gasps, before another sob stole the air. A longer, shuddering inhale, another sharp exhale.

His face was wet with sweat and tears and snot, and even as he shook with another wave of emotion, he started to pull back, ashamed to be like this, he really should clean up a little. He felt Steve’s arms tighten in resistance, and tried to gasp out some explanation, but could not get past, “Please–”

“It’s okay, Buck,” came Steve’s answer. “I’ve got you. I promise. I’ve got you.”

Too disoriented and tormented to resist, Bucky let himself fall forward again. Still with the top of his head butted against Steve’s chest, he tried to untangle his hand from Steve’s shirt, but he was shaking so hard… He was going to fall apart, he had _killed_ them, killed his friends, in every efficient way he’d been taught, and they were ripping pieces of his heart out; he was shattering, the cracks running all over.

“Don’t. Let. Go.” Somehow the words made it past his trembling lips.

For the first time, he felt Steve’s grip shift, gently tugging Bucky closer, turning his upper body until his legs followed and he was sitting sideways on the floor in front of Steve, his left stump resting against Steve’s middle, his arm still wrapped around Steve’s side. With no hesitation Steve tucked Bucky’s head under his chin, used one hand to gently pull Bucky’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. Steve’s left arm circled Bucky’s shoulders, so tight it almost hurt.

“Never, Buck. I’ll never let you go.”

With another gasping sob, Bucky buried his face against Steve’s chest, and surrendered.

***

Of course, Steve had ideas of what could have broken Buck down this badly. He’d seen it before, but not in months; not since the beginning of the year.

But he shoved aside the questions and focused on the most important thing: holding his friend together.

Through the tears and agonized groans, he picked out a few words. “Killed them… oh, God, no.”

Steve felt his stomach drop, _Not that._ He ducked his head, putting his mouth closer to Buck’s ear, continuing his comforting stream of words and promises. “S’okay, Buck. I promise. No one’s ever going to make you do that again. They can’t.” He kept one hand stroking over his friend’s hair in a steady rhythm, remembering the motions of his mother’s hands when she comforted him, usually when he was thoroughly sick of being sick.

“They can’t get to you anymore, I promise. Shh. _Zhelaniye. Ya s toboy. Rzhavyy. Ty v bezopasnosti. Semnadtsat’. Ya s toboy. Rassvet. Ty v bezopasnosti. Pech’. Ya s toboy. Devyat’. Ty v bezopasnosti. Dobrokachestvennyy. Ya s toboy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Ty v bezopasnosti. Odin. Ya s toboy. Gruzovoy vagon. Ty v bezopasnosti.”_

He recited them slowly, deliberately, and punctuated with gentle assurances. Nat, of all people, had suggested it—in a sideways, careless fashion, of course—once while they were in the middle of a Russian lesson. He had been surprised enough to forget to mention that Dr. Dal had told him practically the same thing.

He could feel the intensity of Buck’s emotions beginning to ebb, bit-by-bit receding to the depths where they belonged. _“Ya s toboy. Ty v bezopasnosti,”_ he murmured one more time, before he lapsed into silence, except for occasionally whispering his friend’s name.

Steve Rogers had never been soft. Life had molded him to be tough and strong, yet always tempered by his mother’s love and gentleness, and Bucky’s care and friendship. And he understood kindness and compassion still, though the endless war had inevitably thickened his skin.

But Bucky knew how to cut down to the bottom of his soul, stirring up a fundamental love for his brother, a love that demanded he do something whether in word or deed, to be there for Bucky, to give him whatever he needed.

So if Bucky needed to cry in his arms, to fall apart and be put back together, that was what Steve would give him.

He didn’t know how long it was until Bucky quieted, his sobs fading to ragged, though deep, breaths. And he didn’t know how much longer they sat there, huddled together on the hard-packed floor of Bucky’s hut.

He half-hoped—though it wasn’t likely—that Buck would be able to fall back asleep. Crying like that was exhausting, but if it had been the kind of nightmare Steve suspected, the chances of getting any more rest that night were slim.

They were breathing in the same time when Bucky finally loosened his grip, shifted his hand to press his palm against Steve’s chest, right over his heart.

“Steve.”

It didn’t seem to be a question, or even the start of a sentence, so Steve said the only thing he could think of.

“Buck.”

A long gusty sigh, before Bucky gently pushed against Steve, and Steve relaxed, let him sit up. Buck bowed his head, letting his hair swing down to hide his face as he rubbed his hand over it. He sniffed, sighed again. Quietly Steve got up and grabbed a couple kleenexes, handed them to Buck, then went to the front room to pour them each a cup of water.

He glanced out the open doorway into the night, could find no hint of dawn. The ache inside was dragging him down again, the echo of his question from early that evening: _Why?_

Why did that man decide to go and shoot at hundreds of people, like they were fish in a barrel? Why did people decide they wanted to rule the world and stopped at nothing to get there? Why did people have to kill and torture and break each other?

Bucky’s answer: _I don’t know._

_I don’t understand._

_I know._

Steve had to grip the edge of the table, and put his head down to take several deep breaths, before he wrestled his emotions back into check. Bucky had stood by him earlier, now he needed Steve to be strong.

He came back to find Bucky sitting with his legs pulled up, arm wrapped around them, head down. The slightest tilt of his head acknowledged Steve’s approach, and Steve crouched beside him.

“Water?”

A shaky inhale, before Bucky lifted his head, put out his hand to take the cup; he drained it in one breath. Steve hesitated a moment, then turned to sit back-to-back with Bucky, letting his friend lean into him.

There had always been something solid about Bucky, every time he’d hugged Steve, shoved Steve, picked Steve up off the ground, wrapped his arm around Steve’s skinny shoulders. Now Steve’s shoulders were the broader ones.

He turned his head so Bucky could hear him better. “Wanna talk about it?”

A hitch in Buck’s breathing before he answered, his voice something less than a whisper. “I-I killed them all. Shuri. T’Challa. K-Khanyiswa. The-the kids. You.”

Steve clenched his jaw, pressing his back hard against Bucky’s, making himself as real as possible.

“I killed them. I killed them all.”

 _“Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat’.”_ It was about the third word that Steve felt Bucky tense, but he didn’t pause. _“Rassvet. Pech’. Devyat’. Dobrokachestvennyy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon.”_ Bucky released his breath in a _whoosh_ , let his head fall back onto Steve’s left shoulder, his hair tickling against the blond man’s neck.

“ _Uvidet’?”_ Steve said. _“Ty v bezopasnosti. YA pryamo zdes’.”_

There was a long silence, before Bucky answered.

 _“Da. YA znayu._ I-I know. I just– What happened… back home.”

Steve swallowed, guilt flooding through him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, bowing his head. “I-I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I should have remembered…” He should have remembered what kind of memories a shooting would stir up for Bucky. He should have actually thought of Bucky, instead of just himself.

“N-no.” Buck’s voice wasn’t unsteady, so much as unsure, searching for the right words. “No, you- you’re more important.”

Steve clenched his jaw hard, reached back with his left hand to find Bucky’s right, squeezed it hard once. _You idiot,_ he wanted to say. _Sometimes you_ should _think about yourself._

***

Bucky closed his eyes, snapped them open again. No, he had to concentrate on something else, Steve’s strong, warm back braced against his.

“Stay with me, Steve?” Bucky whispered. “Don’t let me fall asleep. I… can’t. Please.”

Steve cleared his throat softly. “Wanna go for a walk?”

“No.” He didn’t have the energy for that.

“Want me to read something?”

“N-no.” At the moment he didn’t want Steve to move, to leave him cold and alone. “Not right now.”

“Okay.”

Bucky slumped down a little further, so the back of his head rested against the back of Steve’s neck. “Just… talk.”

A long silence, before Steve took a deep breath. “There was a soldier, just an ordinary infantryman for HYDRA. He turned himself in right before we took down a blockade. He ended up being useful, but he was terrified to see me. He said soldiers dropped dead when Captain America approached.

“It took me a few minutes to figure out what he meant. He was talking about you. Best sniper in the US Army. Sometimes you left me no one to fight.”

Bucky gnawed on his bottom lip, unsure if this was what he wanted to hear. His stomach was starting to churn again.

“You protected me. You protected all of us. Your strength was with a rifle in your hands, and you used it for good. I was safe with you watching my back. You were protecting the people you loved.

“HYDRA- HYDRA twisted that. They took your skills and made them… wrong. They used you– No, they used you _as the Winter Soldier_ for something other than protection. But… you’re not the Winter Soldier anymore.”

Bucky felt Steve turn his head, shifting so his cheek was pressed against the top of Bucky’s head. He could feel the words Steve was speaking, resonating through him.

“You’re Bucky. You still have all those skills, but they can’t _make_ you use them anymore. It’s your choice now. And I know you will choose… to protect. You’re not going to try to hurt the ones you love when you’re trying to protect them.”

Bucky tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “But…” he whispered. He could remember in that week or so after Siberia, once or twice he’d woken up from a dream in the mind of the Soldier, fighting Steve until his friend could pin him down and call him back to himself. The last time he’d punched Steve in the face hard enough to leave bruises for a couple days. That, combined with Steve needing to leave and find a way to rescue the others from prison, had been the essential factor in his decision to go back into cryo. “I’ve hurt you. Even though I didn’t want to.”

Another deep breath from Steve. “When we were on the helicarrier, I thought I was going to die. I thought you were going to– I thought the Winter Soldier was going to kill me. But I knew you were in there. Whatever kind of prison they’d locked you in this time, I was going to find you. Even if I died doing it.

"When I fell, I wondered if that was how you’d felt. And I wished…” A shaky inhale, before Steve’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I wished I could tell you how sorry I was that I didn’t go after you." He cleared his throat. "Then I must have hit the water, because I was drowning, and- and I couldn’t fight it, and the last thing I saw… was your hand. _You_ pulled me out, _you_ saved my life. Bucky did that. ‘Cause that’s what he was always doing.” A longer pause.

“And then you left.”

“I had to,” Bucky whispered, sudden hot tears pressing at the backs of his eyes.

Steve’s reply was immediate. “I know. I might wish you hadn’t, but I know why you had to. You had to protect me. Seventy years and you still wanted to protect me.”

Bucky wanted to say something, but he was too close to crying again. He knew all this, yes, he did. But sometimes he forgot, sometimes the fear, those voices from his past, came back to remind him of what he’d done, what they’d made him do, what he was capable of.

He remembered being angry with Steve sometimes, wishing he would stop hoping, stop blindly believing that Bucky could change, could be anything near ‘normal’ again. But now…

“Shuri. T’Challa. All the people you got to know in the city, now the villagers. Umkhulu, Khanyiswa, the kids. Bucky, you care about them. If anything ever threatened them, you’d do everything you could to protect them. I know. Because I know _you_.”

Bucky was crying, but he was glad when Steve didn’t really do anything, just tilted his head back to rest against Bucky’s.

It was only a few minutes, yet when the tears stopped, Bucky felt… lighter. Still tired, still afraid, still troubled. But… He sniffed in a deep breath, wiped his hand across his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I know.”

The quiet that followed was gentle, a comforting blanket wrapped around them, Steve’s shoulders so strong and firm against his.

He turned just enough to rest his cheek against the back of Steve’s right shoulder, sighed, let his muscles relax.The steady throb of Steve's heart was an anchor and he discovered his breathing had slipped into the same rhythm as Steve’s.

It felt like a long time, before one of them spoke again.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t sound the least bit sleepy.

Bucky still didn’t want to fall asleep, even though he was definitely tired. Or maybe not tired so much as… “You hungry?”

“Sure.”

He felt Steve move, then hesitate, and a smile slipped across Bucky’s face. “Ready?” he said over his shoulder.

“One, two, three,” Steve counted, and they stood at the same time, still back-to-back, braced against each other so they didn’t have to use their hands.

“Sandwiches?” Steve asked turning to face Bucky, smiling.

“Sure. Just don’t try and make me take any mustard on mine.”

Steve smirked. “Yeah, I remember.”

They sat at the table while they ate, occasionally talking, more often silent. They had moved to sit in the front doorway, Steve now leaning against Bucky, when the last star faded in the east.

 

 _There’s a place that you’re safe and I want you to see_  
_I don’t care if it hurts, crash into me_  
_Let tomorrow clear the smoke_

_…_

_When you’re tired of faith I’ll give you some of mine_  
_I’ll be the light_  
_When there’s nothing but night_  
_‘Til now you’ve had to feel your way_  
_Through the honest lies of yesterday_  
_I’ll guide you in_  
_No matter how long you’ve been_  
_Lost in love and all alone_  
_A million miles away from home_  
_And when your dawn refuses to fight_  
_I’ll be the light_

_-‘I’ll Be the Light’ by Colton Dixon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian:  
>  _Zhelaniye_ : longing  
>  _Ya s toboy._ : I am with you.  
>  _Rzhavyy_ : rusted  
>  _Ty v bezopasnosti._ : You are safe.  
>  _Semnadtsat’_ : seventeen  
>  _Rassvet:_ daybreak  
>  _Pech’_ : furnace  
>  _Devyat’:_ nine  
>  _Dobrokachestvennyy:_ benign  
>  _Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu_ : homecoming  
>  _Odin_ : one  
>  _Gruzovoy vagon_ : freight car  
>  _Uvidet’? Ty v bezopasnosti. YA pryamo zdes’._ : See? You’re safe. I’m right here.  
>  _YA znayu_ : I know
> 
> Eh, I hope I did that all right? Thanks so much for reading!


	16. Forever On Your Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a good chapter to write.  
> Shout out to FireMoon42, for whom I had to put in the one mention.  
> And to Griselda_Banks I _promise_ I'm not trying to constantly copy you, I've just always loved that chapter of yours, just like I've always loved the story of _White Fang_. But I had the idea of using that book here, mainly because I've been reading it to put _myself_ to sleep. And no matter how hard I tried to put another book in, I couldn't make it work. So please don't be mad. Didn't you say 'imitation is the highest form of flattery'?

_Steve_  
_Steve Rogers_  
_Bucky_  
_James Buchanan Barnes_  
_Bucky Barnes_  
_I’m with you to the end of the line_  
_He said, I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line_  
_I’m with you to the end of the line_  
_I’m with you to the end of the line_  
_I said, I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_To the end of the line, pal._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._  
_He cried. He cried and ~~I I I~~ I hugged him. I thought he was smaller. _  
_He said, Thank you, Buck. He said he’d be fine._  
_I can get by on my own._  
_You don’t have to. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._  
_He was all alone. His mama was dead. And he looked at ~~me me~~ me and started crying. _  
_So I Bucky Bucky I held him for a long time._  
_His face wasn’t beat up. Then._

The printing was thick and dark; the writer had pressed hard enough on the pencil to engrave the words into the paper. It continued on the facing page.

 _Blood_  
_On his face._  
_They hurt him, beat him up. He was smaller_  
_Than everyone. But he fought them anyway._  
_Punk._  
_He’s a punk_  
_Steve_  
_Punk_  
_Jerk._  
_Steve_  
_I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_I’m with you to the end of the line._  
_~~He said I said~~ No he said_  
_He said, You’re my friend._  
_My friend._  
_Friend._  
_His friend._

Bucky ran his fingers over the words, then took the rest of the pages between his thumb and forefinger, and let them flicker past. The printing shrank a little, relaxed, and by the end of the volume was almost handwriting. It was still all single lines or lists. On the last page:

 _Steven Grant Rogers_  
_Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James Barnes_  
_Bucky comes from Buchanan because one of my cousins said it all wrong._  
_Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant Bucky Barnes_  
_He got sick a lot, but not after they made him Captain America._  
_He still looks the same. His eyes are the same and his smile._  
_Bucky made him laugh. Bucky was his best friend._  
_Bucky said ‘I’m with you to the end of the line.’_  
_Steve said ‘I’m with you to the end of the line.’_  
_Steve said that to me._  
_He looked at me. He was hurt badly blood on his face._  
_I hurt him. My mission_  
_“Then finish it, cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”_  
_He called me Bucky._  
_Bucky looks like me. Except he has short hair. He lived a long time ago._  
_I remember being Bucky._  
_He said my name was James Buchanan Barnes. You’ve known me your whole life. You’re my friend._  
_He called me Bucky. ~~I want to be Bucky.~~ I want to be Bucky._  
_His face is so bright when he smiles. But his eyes only smile in the old pictures._  
_He smiled at me. I remember._

Bucky let the old notebook fall shut on the desk top, covered it with his hand. Steve's words last night: _"Never, Buck. I'll never let you go."_ He heard Steve walking through the front room and took a deep breath, turned.

“Buck? Breakfast’s ready.” He met Bucky’s gaze, gave him a hopeful little smile.

Bucky felt the corner of his own mouth quirk up. “Okay.” As he followed Steve outside, Buck suddenly blurted out, “I’m with you to the end of the line.”

Steve stopped, turned, staring.

Bucky felt his face flushing, and he spoke before Steve could. “I remember that. Why did you remember that?”

Steve blinked and his shoulders fell in a sharp exhale. “I–”

Quietly, Bucky moved to sit by the fire, and Steve automatically followed.

“Even when I had nothing... I had you. I had no one left. Mom was… gone.” He swallowed, sat cross-legged, rested his elbows on his knees, stared at his clasped hands. “I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I wasn’t going to inconvenience anyone. But you just… You just said you weren’t leaving. And you didn’t.”

“You think I would? After everything we’d been through? All the times you stuck by me when I thought we’d lost everything?” Bucky shot Steve a fondly exasperated look. “You know me better than that, pal.”

Steve looked up and gave a watery smile. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

Bucky started ladling out Steve’s porridge, which smelled just like their moms used to make it. “Did you put extra brown sugar in?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Steve took the bowl and dug his spoon in.

“How long was it ‘til we found an apartment? In Brooklyn, I mean.” 

Whatever needed to be said about last night had already been said. Right now Bucky was glad for the gentle simplicity of these memories, and the extra light Steve shed on everything.

“A couple months,” Steve answered. “We slept on the living room floor. Got up at five every morning to work.”

“You might have run yourself ragged, if we hadn’t gotten an apartment close enough to the college for you to start taking classes.” Bucky stirred his own bowlful, the smell of the steam rising off it making his mouth water. “Sure made for a full house. Thank goodness Aunt Margarita was living with another lady in the next building over.”

“Yeah. You got good at making coffee, with all those early mornings.” Steve grinned. “We had that cat for an alarm clock.”

“Cat?”

“One of Patchwork’s kittens. Twinkle.” Steve blew on his spoonful of porridge. “Black-and-white. She pounced on us at 5:05 every morning.”

“I liked dogs better.”

“Yeah.”

They were silent for a few minutes, actually eating before Bucky suddenly asked, “What happened to her?”

“Huh?” Steve blinked.

“I had a dog. She was brown and red and she could jump over my arm when I stuck it out straight at the shoulder. I was… ten?” He could see her face, bright eyes locked on his, tongue lolling out, tail sweeping the ground as she sat, a bundle of energetic devotion.

“Sheila.”

“Sheila?”

“Yep. You didn’t name her that from the start though. You named her She-wolf, after White Fang’s mother in the book.” Steve chuckled. “I thought you were nuts. She was a little terrier-spaniel mix, and you wanted to call her a wolf? My mom was the one who called her Sheila and pretty soon everyone else did too.”

“I got her for Christmas?” It came out as more of a question.

“Yeah. The three of us had a lot of fun.” Steve paused for a moment, licking his spoon. “She got hit by a car. Middle of the summer. You swore you’d never get another dog. You didn’t.”

Bucky stared down into his almost empty bowl, startled by the surge of emotion that grabbed him. Hit by a car… somehow it was too awful to picture the beautiful little dog in his memories crushed or hurled to the sidewalk.

“When we were living on our own, though,” Steve went on, saving Bucky’s spirits from falling any further. “I remember we tamed this wild mutt that ate out of the garbage cans behind our building. We found him a good home.”

“I’m glad,” Bucky said softly. “What did we call him?”

Steve grinned suddenly, pausing as he refilled his bowl. “Sam. Because I said he looked like Uncle Sam. All that fluffy grey hair and shaggy eyebrows."

Bucky blinked at him, felt the corners of his mouth twitch, before a small laugh came spilling out. “You want to tell him about that one, or should I?”

***

Planting season was ratcheting up and Bucky was glad of the extra work that day. It was also a day when he appreciated the enhancing serum running through his veins, allowing him to do the work of seven or eight men in a day, without having slept the night before.

When he and Steve were unloading sacks of seed corn and coffee and turning it into a race, which had the Wakandans staring, he could laugh and shout breathlessly, “No fair!”; he could feel the sweat on his face, the sun on his head, smell the dust and warmth of Africa, and forget anything else.

Bucky himself was only doing a small cereal crop, plus his garden, and he and Steve were planning to do that next week. For now Bucky intended to pay off a few debts with hard labor, and if Steve joined in so much the better.

Most of the people Bucky worked with used no machinery or automated systems, planting whole fields by hand. Some farmers plowed, and tilled the soil, others chose not to; that was often done by turns over the years. Steve and Bucky ended up being a part of almost every step of the process, since they could move so much quicker. That resulted in bets being placed, and the majority calling for a match race: Steve and Bucky taking one half of the field and everyone else the other.

As two of the men staked a line down the centre, dividing the roughly four acres in half, Steve glanced over shaking his head. “Never thought you’d turn me into a farmer.”

Bucky grinned. “Never thought I’d be one.”

“Well, us against the world; that’s normal.”

Bucky chuckled this time. “Forty people ain’t exactly the world.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And we’ve always had a good team.”

Nontasasa, Fundani, and Avi grinned back.

Despite the two of them being such rookies at the whole business, it ended in a tie. Steve dropped in his last handful of seeds, Bucky stuck out his foot to smooth the earth over, and the two of them were tackled by the kids.

They went down whooping with exhilaration, and Bucky rolled onto his back, grabbing Avi and pulling him into the dirt too. The boy squealed and struggled for a minute, but the _‘phew, we’re done!’_ seemed to hit all of them at once, and the men and kids all flopped back and lay still, their breathing quick huffs of laughter.

“A tie! A tie!” someone was calling in the distance, but Bucky turned his head to look across at Steve, who had Fundani draped across his stomach, Nontasasa lying spread-eagled on his other side. Steve had dirt in his hair and mixed with the sweat streaked across his face; Bucky was pretty sure he looked just as dirty.

Steve’s eyes glowed the same blue as the sky, and Bucky felt his heart lifting; in fact he rather wished he could just vault into the heavens and fly around up there. Because those were the same eyes that had smiled at him for as long as he could remember.

The other members of their team had changed, had come and gone over time, and Bucky would always value them, even if he sometimes forgot their names. But Steve… Steve was still here, with him, beside him. If Bucky let himself take the long view back, it was like Steve was the unbreakable thread that bound the story of Bucky’s life.

Steve said nothing, just raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Bucky blinked and found one word in the emotions tumbling through him. “Thanks.”

“What for?” Steve asked, but the smile working across his face had a hint of embarrassment gratitude in it, and Bucky knew that _he_ knew. But he said it anyway.

“Everything.”

***

Over lunch the subject of dogs came up again.

Steve had made them sandwiches and they sat in the shade of a tree, with a dozen other Wakandans including the kids. Mabhuti sat in Steve’s lap and nibbled his way through half a sandwich.

“They had dogs at the farm. My aunt and uncle,” Bucky clarified.

“Yeah, collies.”

“Like Lassie.”

Steve smiled. “Yeah. _Lassie Come-Home.”_ His voice dropped a notch. “That was one of my mom’s favorite books. It was Scottish, but it reminded her of home.”

“She read to us a lot, didn’t she?”

Steve leaned back, chugged down half his bottle of water, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, after your family moved next door, she’d have all of us kids over for supper, give Aunt Winnie a break.”

Bucky knew better by now than to force the memories, but he couldn’t quite catch it. “And after supper?”

“We’d do homework, and in the summer play games. She read to us while we worked, usually put the little girls to sleep.”

“And we’d carry them home,” Bucky said. “Becca walking between us.”

Steve’s smile had a trace of pride in it, when he looked at Bucky. “Yup.”

“She had a good voice. She was a really good singer. That’s where you got it.”

“Dad was pretty good too,” Steve said softly. “That’s what she always said.”

“Sing something.” One of the men called his name and Bucky caught the fresh figs that were tossed his way. He also saw the look on Steve’s face. “Anything. One of her favorites.”

“Sing,” Mabhuti chirped, looking up at Steve.

Bucky managed to squash his laughter.

Steve rubbed a hand over the little head, and gave a slightly embarrassed smile. Then he started to sing softly.

“There’s a tear in your eye, and I’m wondering why, for it never should be there at all. With such power in your smile, sure a stone you'd beguile, so there's never a teardrop should fall.”

As he sang his voice got louder, stronger, and Bucky could tell he was getting carried away by the memories. All chatter around them died away, and everyone sat and listened to an American man sing an Irish song under a tree in Africa.

When he reached the chorus though, Steve’s voice began to falter.

“When Irish eyes are smiling, sure, 'tis like a morn in spring. In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing. When Irish hearts are happy all the world seems bright and gay. And when Irish eyes are smiling, sure, they’ll steal your heart away.”

Silence fell and Steve sat with his head bowed. Mabhuti shifted to loop his arm around Steve’s neck, and Steve reached up to give the little brown hand a gentle tug.

_“Entle.”_

_“Kumangalisa.”_

Bucky heard the soft words of admiration, and Steve stirred, glanced up, and blushed as he discovered everyone smiling at him. With a little smirk, Buck saved him.

“Too bad I could never sound like that.”

“Wrong genes,” Steve said, relaxing, though his eyes stayed cloudy. “She used to sing it to me sometimes, but usually I knew it meant she was thinking of… Dad. Dad sang that song the first time he met my mom. She was working at a pub to make some more money, when she was trying to get into nursing school. Dad was just another poor Irish immigrant and he would come in to sing for money.”

Bucky watched him, thinking. “I-I don’t remember how he died.”

Steve looked over. “Gas attack,” he said quietly. “He–”

“Gave his gas mask away,” Bucky finished. He smiled softly at Steve. “Well, apple doesn’t fall too far from that tree.”

 _“Ingcuka Emhlophe._ Steve.” One of the other men called their names and they glanced up. Almost everyone else was on their feet and packing away any remains of their lunches. “We should get back to work.” The tall fellow grinned. “Or maybe just you two should work.”

Steve stood, at the same time lifting Mabhuti to sit on his shoulders. He turned to offer his hand to Bucky, who grasped his wrist, and let Steve pull him up. Khwezi jumped up next to him.

“Nah,” Bucky said. “I think we _all_ work better together.”

***

They had taken a refreshing swim in the river as the sun was setting, and had finished their supper late, when Bucky glanced up and knew it was night. He blinked, felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Somtimes the black of nighttime was like a canvas his mind painted pictures on. In the dark it was too easy to recall the blood, the stain that spread across… He sucked in a sharp breath and moved to bank up the ashes over the coals.

“Don’t want to sleep outside tonight?” Steve asked, leaning against the doorframe, the light in the hut behind him casting his shadow across the ground.

“Nah.” He walked toward Steve, who turned to go ahead of him into the front room, and Bucky stared at his friend’s broad shoulders. “I don’t know if I can sleep tonight,” he said softly.

He was tired for sure; a hard day’s work had seen to that. And it had been a good day, too; a very good day. But that weariness made it all the more difficult to hold back the images that now circled the edge of his consciousness, like wolves seeking prey.

Steve had stopped to rearrange some things on one of the shelves, and Bucky took another step to stand close behind him. His stomach was comfortably full, but he could feel his energy slowly draining away, and he sighed, let his head fall forward to rest on Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah," Steve said. Bucky let his eyes half-close, taking in the feeling of Steve’s movements, the vibrations of his voice: “I can read if you want.”

“Mmm,” Bucky mumbled, not even trying to be coherent.

Steve chuckled, turned to slip an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s just go to bed.”

Bucky blinked, straightened, but let himself lean into Steve. The truth was: he was tired. But the closer he got to lying down to sleep, the more he wanted to stay awake. He took a deep breath, stood in the middle of the back room, while Steve sat in the chair to take his boots off.

“What do you want me to read? Should we start The Lord of the Rings?”

Bucky thought for a moment. “N-no.” He walked to the bookshelf, ran a finger lightly down the spines. “Something old. Something…” He paused, stared at a title, pulled out a red hardcover. _“White Fang?”_

Steve had exchanged his jeans for comfortable sleep pants and came over, raising one eyebrow. “One of your favorites. ‘Course you liked _Call of the Wild_ too, because the dog’s name was Buck.” They shared a smile. “But you were always a sucker for happy-endings.”

“As long as there was adventure to go with it,” Bucky said.

“Which made a wolf story just a little better than the others.” Steve cocked his head, gave Bucky a long look, before breaking into a sudden smile. “White Wolf.”

Bucky leaned to shove his left shoulder against Steve. “Yeah, yeah. How about I read first?”

“Sure.”

Steve was moving toward his sleeping mat, but Bucky stayed where he was, biting his lip. Steve paused, glanced at him, waited.

“Can we… sit?” Bucky asked, fumbling for the words. “Like- like last night?”

“Sure.”

Bucky crossed his legs, pressed his back against Steve’s letting the warmth and strength brace him up. He could hear Steve sharpening his sketching pencils with Bucky’s knife, and smiled without meaning to. He liked sitting this way, Steve at his back, together, able to take on anything that might come against them.

He flipped open the book in his lap, remembered how it started, and hesitated. “Ok if I skip ahead?”

Bucky could hear a smile in Steve’s voice. “The later parts are better anyway. But I do like it when he’s just a baby.”

“Ok. I’ll start there.”

***

Steve took his time with this drawing. It was one he’d been thinking of doing for a while, but to have Bucky reading _White Fang_ now seemed like the perfect inspiration. He let the words, read out in Bucky’s clear voice—softer than he remembered, but always Bucky’s—fill his head with pictures, which he pulled together into the image he wanted to produce on the paper. He put care and thought into each line, pausing to consider, to get this little bit straight in his mind, then moving quickly to get it down.

As much as they both enjoyed the ultimate redemption of White Fang—from a beaten, half-starved dog, who knew nothing but cruelty, to a loyal, loving, though always noble, protector—Steve had always liked the descriptive prose, especially of the Wild. It was just enough, not too much, to paint vivid pictures in his imagination, let him see the little wolf pup growing and changing with each new experience.

Bucky had read two chapters and was starting on a third, when Steve began to detect a slowing of his friend’s voice. He slowed his pencil strokes, feeling Bucky slump against him a little more. This was exactly what he was hoping for. Maybe, with Steve at his back, and thoughts of the good old times in the forefront of his mind, Bucky would actually be able to sleep.

Bucky was reading through White Fang’s first ramble in the wide world, when his voice finally trailed off into silence. A moment later Steve felt him jerk his head up, give it a quick shake. With a faint smile, Steve set his sketchbook aside. “Want me to keep reading?”

“Sure,” Bucky replied, passing the book over his shoulder.

Steve took it, stretched his legs out across the floor—they were sitting on Bucky’s sleeping mat, which was definitely more comfortable than hard-packed earth. He found the paragraph and went on reading, keeping his voice low and even.

The first time he paused, Bucky mumbled, “Keep going.” So he did.

But he could feel Bucky nodding off, his head now resting against the back of Steve’s shoulder, his breathing turned slow and deep.

Steve paused again, listened. No response. Ever so gently he reached to tear a blank page from his sketchpad, fold it, and stick it in the book for a marker. Still no movement from Buck.

He laid the book aside, and slowly turned his upper body to look down at his friend, even as he reached to grip his shoulders, easing Buck sideways 'til his head rested on the pillow.

Now Bucky stirred, stiffened, blinked awake. “Wha- what?”

“Just me, Buck,” Steve said softly. “I’ll go back to reading in a minute.”

“You got this watch?” Bucky murmured, turning onto his back and making himself comfortable.

Steve smiled. “Yeah, I got it.” It was in the early days of the Commandos especially, that Bucky had had difficulty falling asleep. They would often sit up by the campfire or in their tent, just like that, talking, Steve letting his voice ramble on and on until Bucky finally dozed off.

Now Steve reached for the switch to dim the light ‘til he could just make out Bucky’s face, his eyes cloudy with sleep but still watching him.

Steve moved to sit parallel to his friend and picked up _White Fang_ again, a book they’d read dozens of times over their lives. He hesitated, staring at the words without seeing them. Those had been good days, when they were young and innocent, and taking whatever the world threw at them, easy or hard, pain or pleasure. Even as men, firm in their mission, determined to stop the evils they could, to stand and defend those who couldn’t defend themselves, they had faced life head-on, together.

They could never go back to those days, never be what they once were. But one thing was still the same: together. Side-by-side, back-to-back… however they stood it was the same. Together. When he was beside his brother it was a whole lot easier to believe that things could change _for the better._ To see that there was goodness and hope and beauty and… love left in this world.

Things like Las Vegas, and the reminder of what had been done to Buck… they could make it hard. Very hard. But when he let himself remember that though people had died, hundreds more had survived, and when he looked at Bucky, knowing how he’d overcome the worst of it and was perhaps even stronger for it, Steve could let himself hope again. Believe again.

A sleepy grumble ended Steve’s train of thought, and he bowed his head over the book.

_“But the cub did not think in man-fashion. He did not look at things with wide vision. He was single-purposed, and entertained but one thought or desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there was a myriad other and lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with surprise. The stir of the life that was in him, the play of the muscles, was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience thrills and elations. His rages and battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and the mystery of the unknown, lent to his living._

_“And there were easements and satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to doze lazily in the sunshine—such things were remuneration in full for his ardors and toils, while his ardors and toils were in themselves self-remunerative. They were expressions of life, and life is always happy when it is expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud of himself.”_

Steve let his voice die away, listened. Bucky was fast asleep. Steve let his own eyes close for a moment, then opened them again. Something told his heart they were safe for this night at least, and he set the book aside, lay down with his head pillowed on Bucky’s good shoulder.

He could hear Bucky’s heart-beat, the same as always, and he let his eyes drift shut. He would finish his drawing in the morning.

 

 _I won't pretend_  
_That we can control the night_  
_Or what kind of road we're on_  
_Or where we will see the light_  
_But right now I'm talking to ya_  
_I'm looking into your eyes_  
_Right now I'm trying to show ya_  
_That we're gonna be alright_

 _Oh I don't know what's around the bend_  
_Oh, all I know is that my love It knows no end_

 _All these pieces fall in line_  
_Because I'm forever on your side_  
_Take my hand when you can't see light_  
_Cause I'm forever on your side_  
_And I will carry you, every time_  
_Because I'm forever on your side_

_-‘Forever On Your Side’ by NEEDTOBREATHE_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Entle_ : beautiful  
>  _Kumangalisa_ : amazing
> 
> I think I love this chapter!  
> Oh, and to all my readers out there, as I sketch out the main events of the last six chapters or so, I would love to get suggestions from you all! Is there anything you would like to see happen? Anything you want Bucky and Shuri to do, anyone you want Bucky or Steve to meet, any other interactions you want a little more of? I can't promise to use everything I might get, an idea has to grab my heart too, but I love you all, whether you comment, leave kudos, or just quietly read. Thanks so much!


	17. Count on Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo this was long!  
> To FireMoon42: your wish is my command!

_Bucky heard the fight before he saw it. Or at least he heard the beginning of it._

_He was late for school on a dreary midwinter’s day, since Becca had swallowed something bad for her, and Bucky’s mama had to rush her to the doctor, leaving Bucky to watch the twins. Becca was fine, and Bucky had a note in his lunch pail with an explanation. But it was now recess, and when Bucky heard the shouts from inside the schoolyard, he picked up his pace._

_It was Georgie-Porgy of course. Bucky could see his head above the ring of boys that circled him and his latest victim. “Fight! Fight!” they were chanting, and Bucky glanced around wondering where Steve was. He brushed past a group of girls comforting another girl who was crying._

_“Boys! Boys!” came a shout somewhere behind him, and he hesitated, not wanting to look too interested if a teacher was coming._

_The little crowd parted, and Bucky saw Georgie throwing a much smaller kid to the ground. “Should I sit on you, too?” Georgie was saying._

_Bucky gasped as the small boy threw up one arm, gamely trying to scramble out of the slushy snow, and then he was running. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!”_

_It was less of a punch and more of a smack to the side of the head that sent Steve reeling back to the ground, and Bucky flung himself the last few feet, tackling Georgie around the waist._

_The big boy was knocked sprawling, and he lay still for a moment, seeming stunned. Bucky leapt to his feet, firmly planting himself in front of Steve._

_“How dare you beat up someone like that?!” Bucky yelled, aiming a kick at Georgie’s stomach. “Get up and fight, coward!” He was mad, mad clean through, because Georgie was thirteen and trying to beat up a kid half his size. And that kid was Steve, who always stood up for other kids, and who just happened to be the best friend Bucky had ever made. Bucky glared at him, as the bully scrambled to his feet._

_And then the teacher was there stepping between them, grabbing Georgie’s arm. “Linwood!” he snapped. “What is it now?”_

_There was a babble of voices, mostly girls, since the boys had mysteriously melted away._

_“Barnes.” The teacher frowned down at him, still braced for a fight and eyeing the bully. “Help him up, and you are all coming to the principal’s office.”_

_Slowly Bucky backed up a step, gave Georgie one last glare, and turned to help Steve to his feet._

_“Steve?”_

_Steve was still curled up on the ground, his eyes shut, one bare hand gripping his coat over his chest._

_“Steve?” Bucky knelt beside him, gingerly reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you okay?” There was something wrong with Steve’s breathing, in fact, he was hardly breathing at all. Just faint little gasps, that, for some reason he couldn’t grasp, made Bucky’s own chest hurt._

_“It’s his asthma,” said a voice in the distance and Bucky was aware of someone kneeling next to him, reaching for Steve. Bucky’s hand shot out, pushing their arms away none too gently._

_His mind was racing. Asthma. Steve was having an asthma attack. Bucky had seen this before once or twice, and Aunt Sarah had given Steve some medicine. Bucky had no medicine. But Aunt Sarah had talked to him too. Told him it was okay, that he could breathe. He had to breathe. Not being able to breathe was bad._

_He became aware that he was looking right into Steve’s wide, terrified eyes._

_“Breathe.”_

_The word came out on its own, and Bucky reached to grab Steve’s hand, pulling him up into a sitting position. “Just breathe. You can do it.”_

_Steve seemed to have no strength, and he slumped forward over his knees. Bucky caught him with a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back to lean into Bucky’s other arm, braced across his shoulders._

_Steve’s eyes were locked on his, his lips parted, gasping for air he couldn’t find. Bucky hardly knew what to say. “Please, Steve. It’s okay. You can breathe. You can. Just try. Come on. Breathe in. Now breathe out. In. And out. In. And out. In. And out.” Steve was listening, Bucky could see it in his eyes. He was trying to follow the instructions, his chest moving in barely perceptible jerks._

_“In. Out. In. Out. Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe.” Bucky didn’t know how long he kept saying the words. Steve seemed to be hanging on to the rhythm, and when Bucky next tore his eyes away from Steve’s face (because somehow he knew, as long as Steve was looking at him, nothing could go really wrong), Steve was actually breathing. Still small and shallow, but his chest was rising and falling and Bucky could actually hear him._

_Steve gasped a slightly deeper breath and managed to wheeze, “Buck.”_

_“It’s okay.” He kept his voice as steady as possible. “Just breathe, okay?”_

_“Can’t–”_

_“You can. Just. Breathe. Just. Breathe.” Bucky found he was matching his own breathing to the words, as if willing the air into Steve’s lungs, trying to breathe for him._

_Steve was definitely following him, fighting for each breath, and miraculously finding it. “Just. Breathe.”_

_Bucky could never tell how long they sat there in the snow, engaged in some battle he could only dimly understand, until Steve managed to say, “O-kay. I’m fine, Buck.” Each syllable was a gasp, but the horrible fear was gone from his eyes, and he seemed to sag against Bucky. He was beginning to shiver. “H-help m-me up-p-p.”_

_Without a word, and with almost no effort, Bucky did so. Steve wavered, and might have slid back down if Bucky hadn’t turned to pull Steve’s left arm around his neck and support him with an arm across his back. “I got ya,” he said. “Come on, let’s…”_

_Bucky’s voice trailed off as he looked up and realized that he and Steve were in the schoolyard, surrounded by a group of teachers and students who all seemed frozen, staring at the two boys._

_Bucky blinked, and it was as if a spell broke: the other students were moving away, two adults were shepherding Bucky and Steve toward the school._

_“Let me take him,” one said, starting to pull Steve away, but Bucky and Steve spoke at the same moment._

_“I’m fine.”_

_A sudden smile started to work its way across Bucky’s face, hearing their voices together, and the tension seemed to run away. He straightened, pulling Steve up a little more, taking more of his weight. He glanced sideways at Steve’s bruised face._

_They were victorious soldiers, limping off the battlefield, tired, sure, but Bucky felt… exultant. Whatever the enemy was, and it had definitely been something bigger than Georgie, they’d beaten it._

_Bucky refused to leave while the school nurse got Steve something warm to drink, and made him sit by the radiator while she checked him over._

_“I think you’re alright, but you should go home and get out of those wet things, and probably get some rest.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Is there anyone who can come get you?”_

_“No, ma’am.” Steve stood up, pulling Bucky’s coat tighter around his shoulders; Buck’d made Steve swap. “I can get home myself.”_

_“I’ll go with you,” Bucky said, stepping forward._

_“No,_ you _need to get to class.” The nurse frowned sternly at him._

_Bucky looked up at her. “But, ma’am. You don’t understand. Please. He- he doesn’t have anyone else.”_

_In the moment of quiet while Bucky and the nurse stared at each other, Steve said quietly, “It’s okay, Buck. I’ll be fine on my own.”_

_He was almost to the door, before the nurse seemed to realize what was happening. “Well, hurry him home then,” she said. “And make sure he gets well warmed up.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky nodded vigorously, and turned to hurry after Steve. As they made their way down the front walk, he realized he’d lost his lunch pail somewhere, but he really didn’t care._

_Steve paused in the gateway and looked sideways at him. “I’m okay. Real-l-l-ly,” he said, even as he shivered again. But something in his eyes said otherwise._

_Bucky just smiled at him and started walking again. “Come on, slowpoke,” he called. When Steve was beside him again, he went on: “What was that fight about anyway?”_

_Steve frowned. “George was putting snow down Lina’s dress.”_

_“And you had to stop him.”_

_“Someone did.”_

_“Well, give me a call next time, okay? If we work together we can pound him.”_

_Steve was still frowning, though there was a teasing light in his eyes now. “But that’s not fair, right? Two against one?”_

_Bucky laughed and gave Steve shoulder a little shove. “It is when the two are as small as us.”_

_There was a few minutes of quiet, as they concentrated on walking, and Bucky could hear Steve’s breathing with a little rasp in it. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly. “That was… scary.”_

_“Yeah. I always have to take medicine for it. I don’t know how you did that.” Steve’s voice dropped to a mumble. “Thanks, Buck.”_

_Bucky shrugged, kept his eyes on the sidewalk. “Just give me a call next time. Maybe someday you won’t have to take medicine at all.”_

_Steve sighed. “Yeah, I wish.”_

Bucky opened his eyes, and stared up at the blue sky. “Remember how sick you used to get?”

Steve gave a little laugh. “How could I forget?”

They were taking a break from manure spreading on Bucky’s plot of land, partly because they were almost done, and Bucky was a bit tired of finishing jobs so quickly. Bucky turned his head to squint at Steve, sitting against a fence post, filthy hands clasped around one knee. He had borrowed a set of clothes from Bucky for this job.

“I remember the first time you talked me through an asthma attack,” he went on. “It was at school, and–”

“And Georgie had been beating you up,” Bucky interrupted. “It was snowy and you got sent home by the school nurse. I went with you.”

Steve turned his head to raise an eyebrow at his friend, but a little smile played on his lips. “Yeah.”

“Just remembering that now,” Bucky said, sitting up and scooting back to lean against the wood rails. “I remember it was scary.”

“Yep,” Steve said. “That was the biggest reason why my mom had been so worried about me going to school. But when she found out you’d helped me, she calmed down.”

Bucky shook his head in wonder. “If we hadn’t met…”

“Don’t bother.” Steve got to his feet, stretched, and reached to pull Buck up. Even now, the strength in Steve’s arm surprised Bucky, and he let go of Steve’s hand to punch him in the shoulder. “We’re here,” Steve went on. “And here’s a pretty good place to be.”

Bucky glanced over sharply, but Steve was smiling, not big, but it reached his eyes, and… that was all. No cloud, no mixed sadness. He was just smiling at Bucky, and that smile was getting bigger, brighter. Oh. Probably because Bucky was smiling back.

***

The sound of the drums was something that Bucky felt deep in his bones, and he stood on the edge of the circle of light, just in the shadows, listening.

The song was a lilting chant, the men taking one part, the women another, and around the large fire, the children danced. In between the flickering firelight and twilight shadows, he could still pick out faces. Nontasasa dancing beside Jongikhaya’s youngest daughter; Khwezi in a little space all his own, clapping and stamping and turning.

Bucky wouldn’t have minded dancing himself, but it wasn’t really his kind of music. There was joy in the faces and voices, but a mysterious current running through it all that he wished he could understand. So he only listened and watched.

Steve approached—Mabhuti perched in his customary spot on the man’s shoulders—and took a seat on one of the benches in front of a hut. Bucky meandered over to sit beside him, and Steve looked up.

With a little squeal Mabhuti slipped off sideways and Steve caught him without looking. “Do it again!” the child cried and Steve obligingly set him back on his shoulders, and this time stood up very suddenly. Giggling, Mabhuti fell backwards and Steve spun to swoop him out of the air, then tossed him up a few times until he shrieked with merriment. “Think I can I can throw you to the moon?” Steve called, and Mabhuti’s reply was a breathless, “Try! Try!”

Bucky closed his eyes, taking in the sounds, picking out the stamp of individual feet, the notes of single voices, and the sound of Steve’s breathing, quick with laughter. Underneath ran the rhythm of the drums, vibrating through the ground.

It was all so different from anything he’d known in his ‘old’ life. But was it? Wasn’t happiness the same anywhere? Weren’t laughter and love just as powerful in one century as another?

He felt Steve sink down beside him again, and he opened his eyes, looked over with a little smile. Mabhuti was sitting sideways in Steve’s lap now, facing Bucky and kicking his feet out to try to grab the fabric of the man’s robe between his toes.

“Steve is fun, yeah?”

“Steve!” Mabhuti chirped, flopping over backwards, and wriggling his body like a snake. “Steve _uyona mhle!”_

“Where the heck did he get all this energy?” Bucky asked.

Steve sighed. “I might have let him eat too many of those sweet mango jelly things.”

Bucky chuckled. “You sound like such a dad.”

Steve managed to groan, laugh, and look embarrassed and pleased all at the same time. “You think you’re funny.”

Bucky smirked, and reached to tickle Mabhuti’s tummy. “You know I am.”

In the middle of the little boy’s giggles, Bucky saw Steve stiffen, but before Bucky could get to worrying, he sighed and his shoulders dropped. He shifted Mabhuti in his lap, so he could reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

Bucky frowned. “What is it?”

“Text message,” was the answer. “Don’t know if I want to look at it.”

“Here.” Bucky easily pulled the phone out of Steve’s grasp, and tapped the screen. It was the same as the one Shuri had given Bucky; he remembered her horror when Steve had pulled out that flip phone he’d had. _“Where did you get that?! Walmart?”_

“It’s a set of coordinates.” Bucky glanced at Steve, shrugged. “That’s it.”

“Nothing else?” Steve was reaching for the cellphone when Bucky saw another message come in.

“Umm, yeah.” He handed it back. “One other thing.”

A single word, all-caps: NOW.

Steve needed one glance, and then he was scooping up Mabhuti with his other hand, setting him on the bench as he stood.

 _“Yima!_ Steve!”

Quickly Bucky reached to loosen the little boy’s grasp on Steve’s fingers. _“Ilungile_ , Mabhuti. He needs to go help someone. _Uya kubuya kungekudala.”_

 _“Kufuneka uhambe?”_ Mabhuti asked, a tremble in his voice as he looked up at Steve.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said gently. “A friend needs me. You take care of Buck until I get back, okay?”

“I know I’m not as exciting,” Bucky said, pulling the child into his lap. “Captain America is better at everything.” He glanced at Steve, who was poised to run. “Go on. We’ll be fine.”

Steve took one step, then another. “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

Bucky surprised himself with a laugh. “Be careful yourself, punk.”

“Yeah, jerk.” And Steve was gone, vanishing into the darkness.

Mabhuti was a tough cookie for all his six years, no doubt thanks to losing his real father less than two years ago. He did not cry, only making a little noise in his throat that reminded Buck of a sad puppy. He hugged the boy against him, trying to comfort him. “I know,” he said softly. “I miss him too. But there are other people who depend on him too. He’ll be back.”

Mabhuti did not answer, but he turned to snuggle up against Bucky, burying his face against the man’s chest. Bucky closed his eyes, listened to the drums; after a minute he started to rock back-and-forth gently to the rhythm.

By the time the music stopped, Mabhuti was sound asleep.

***

Steve shoved Nat aside in the nick of time, bullets slamming into the concrete wall where she’d been. Without a word they ran, zig-zagging to dodge the firing from the end of the hall, until Natasha took a right so suddenly that Steve stumbled against the far wall as he followed.

Another right through a steel door that stood open, up three flights of stairs, and Steve saw the door, the guards, and the guns all in the same moment. Without hesitation, he threw himself across the intervening space at the man on the left. He had his hand on the guard’s arm, forcing the gun back down, even as he gripped the man’s other arm, and whirled to throw him at his companion. Nat was there to knock them out with their own guns.

She searched both men quickly, tucked something into her own pocket; Steve wasn’t about to ask. “How’s she going to explain this one?” she asked, gesturing to the unconscious bodies as she joined Steve at the now open door.

“She’ll find a way.” Steve cocked his head at the distant sound of an explosion. “Let’s go. Quin’s a few miles out.”

It had taken Steve all of five minutes to run the distance, once he’d made it past the perimeter, but now he kept his pace to a brisk walk, watching Natasha closely. They slipped through the perimeter, silent as shadows, but still had a mile to go, when Nat stumbled.

He caught her arm, steadied her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…” She closed her eyes for a moment, and Steve saw the color had drained from her cheeks.

“They feed you anything?”

“Not really.” She took a deep breath, straightened. “Don’t think they knew who they had. I would have been dead in a couple minutes, otherwise.”

“Yeah, they really rolled out the welcome mat. Come on.” Steve slid one arm around her shoulders, and bent to hook the other around the back of her knees. Night was falling and in these heavy woods, Steve didn’t want to miss his way. “You’re only human you know,” he added, concerned by how light she felt in his arms, but not wanting to show it.

“And you aren’t?” she murmured, closing her eyes, and resting her head against his shoulder, as he picked up his pace.

She was nibbling on chocolate bars Steve had stashed on the jet and forgotten to give to Bucky, when the Quinjet reached cruising altitude and Steve switched to autopilot.

“Better?” he asked, moving to sit beside her.

Nat tilted her head, the short blonde bob swinging around her face. She looked dirty and tired; normal for someone locked up in a cell for three days, but Nat wasn’t usually ‘normal’. He wasn’t surprised when she answered with her own question.

“How much did Sharon tell you?”

“She sent me coordinates. She said, ‘Now.’” Steve shrugged. “That was it. Then she met me there, said her people were moving in, but the bad guys had you. Since we now qualify as bad guys, someone had to get you out. And that just happens to be my job.”

She gave him a long inscrutable look, the ‘thinking Romanoff’ look.

“You knew I’d come,” he added.

A sudden smile, there and gone. _“Spasibo.”_

 _“Eto to, chto druz’ya dlya,”_ he answered.

***

It was lunch time when Dr. Dal showed up, climbing the hill to where Bucky sat with a book and his food, watching over his flock.

 _“Molweni ekuseni,”_ the man called.

Bucky jumped up smiling, glad to see him again. _“Molo ngokuhlwa,_ you mean,” he answered. _“Ufike mva.”_

Dr. Dal was actually grinning as he clasped Bucky’s wrist, and Buck reciprocated. _“Kuhle kakhulu ukukubona,_ Bucky.”

“How was the traveling?” Bucky asked, as they sat in the grass. It was a warm day, though cloudy, and the older man was barefoot, his clothes worn and comfortable.

“It is good to be out of a suit and tie, certainly,” he said. “Ah, those meetings. They give you enough food to feed a family of six, and all you do is walk up to a podium. I would much rather sit on this hill and talk to people I care about.” He sighed. “But it is good to learn from one another.”

“Any good stories?” Bucky asked.

Dr. Dal smiled. “I saw a little boy on an airplane. He was wearing a shirt with a shield on it. He said Captain America used to be small and have asthma like him. He said he wanted to fight in the army someday like his hero.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth turned up, and he gave his head a little shake. “Good to know they still make ‘em like that.”

“And how have you been?”

Bucky sighed, looked away over the view. “Good, actually. Good. Say, ninety?”

The doctor raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, nodded. “Steven left again?”

“Yeah. Evening before last.”

“How was his visit?”

Bucky hesitated, searching for the words. “Good,” he finally said, then shrugged, frustrated. “Really good, sort of. I mean…”

“Why did he come back?” Dr. Dal asked, magically producing a small knife and block of wood, and starting to whittle.

“He was tired,” Bucky said softly, hearing the echo of Steve’s voice over the phone. “Needed a break.”

“From what?”

Slowly, like the blade on the wood, Dr. Dal dug out the happenings from the last couple weeks. Bucky didn’t know why it was so hard to explain, why his sentences stayed so brief. He had come to trust the doctor, and usually found it easy to talk to him about anything. But there was something deep and… powerful that had happened during this time with Steve, yet it was something he wanted to hold close and protect as if it were fragile. He knew it wasn’t; he knew more surely than ever that the love that bound his and Steve’s friendship was unbreakable.

The past two weeks had almost been a summary of everything that came before, of who they were: Steve broke down and Bucky picked him up. Yet even as he found his feet, Steve was turning it back, reminding Bucky of how much _he_ cared. Then when Bucky ran out of hope to give, Steve gave it back in equal—no, greater—measure.

And the memories, hundreds of them: bullies, books, songs, sickness, family and friends… they were probably the last two people in the world to remember those things.

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinked, realized he’d been sitting, just staring at nothing. Dr. Dal was smiling at him, understanding in his eyes. “Don’t try to tell me everything that happened. Just tell me what you think about it all.”

Bucky bit his lip, closed his eyes to concentrate. The words came slow and halting. “When we were kids, he got into fights all the time. And I always finished them, because they’d cream him otherwise. They used to say… I was the strong one. And I guess I was. On the outside. But Steve, Steve was strong on the inside. I needed that. It made me stronger, on the inside too. So when things got hard, I knew how to be there for him. And he knew how to be there for me. We still do. Because we’ve both changed. Not _in spite of_ , but _because_ we’ve changed. It’s not the same. It’s… better.”

There was a long silence, Bucky keeping his head down, staring at his hand.

“I mean,” he added, as Dr. Dal opened his mouth, “I don’t–”

“It’s not what you deserve, Bucky.” Dr. Dal’s voice was gentler than usual. “It’s what you’ve been given.”

When Bucky glanced sideways, he was surprised to see what looked like tears in the man’s eyes.

“That is the meaning of friendship,” he went on. “No, that is the meaning of _love._ Instead of letting different experiences divide you, you discover how it brings you together. Instead of _iliso ngeliso_ , equal exchange, you have found the better way. You give, and the other person gives more, so you have more to give. But you continue to give _more_ than you received, and in that way you become stronger. You both become stronger.”

Bucky was silent, trying to wrap his head around what, exactly, Dr. Dal had just said. The man stared at him for a moment, then laughed, softly. “All I am saying is… I believe you have a saying: Count your blessings. Much has been taken, but much has been given. And you still have a reason to smile.”

“I know,” Bucky said softly.

There was another silence, before Dr. Dal broke the spell with a laugh. “I heard there was quite a show during planting. How many people were there against you and Steven?”

Bucky took a deep breath, let it out in a _whoosh_ , found he was smiling. “Well, we had a _little_ help.”

 

_Like the air you breathe_  
_You can count, you can count on me._  
_From the west to the east_  
_You can count, you can count on me._  
_I’ll be your sweet hallelujah,_  
_I’ll come running to ya_  
_Whatever, whenever you need._  
_I’ll be a light in the darkness_  
_Wherever your heart is._  
_You know you can count on me._

_-‘Count On Me’ by Tim Neufeld & the Glory Boys_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xhosa:  
>  _Steve uyona mhle._ : Steve is the best.  
>  _Yima_ : Wait  
>  _Ilungile_ : It’s okay  
>  _Uya kubuya kungekudala_ : He will be back soon  
>  _Kufuneka uhambe?_ : Do you have to go?  
>  _Molo ngokuhlwa_ : Good evening (used any time after noon)  
>  _Ufike mva_ : You’re late  
>  _Kuhle kakhulu ukukubona_ : It’s great to see you  
>  _iliso ngeliso_ : eye for an eye  
> Russian:  
>  _Spasibo_ : Thanks  
>  _Eto to, chto druz’ya dlya_ : That’s what friends are for
> 
> I wasn't really planning on ending like that, but it just suddenly hit me everything that these guys have been through in the last several chapters, and I'm reminded all over again how we can be stronger after getting broken, if we have love to put us back together.


	18. 18 Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am breaking one of my cardinal rules when it comes to music and writing, and it is all Griselda_Banks' fault! She's the one who got me started listening to Daughtry, and now I've used TWO of their songs, and desperately want to use another, only it won't fit in this fic.  
> But I'm really glad I did this, and it's even more poignant when you realize that Steve was in fact 18 when he lost his mom. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful mom, who has sacrificed more for me than I will ever know. I love you.

_Part of it was the way she smelled, something he’d always liked about her. Several things all together: strong soap, gingerbread, and something else that was just… warm. But also he knew, without a doubt, that she was not angry with him. Why else would she hug him and Steve so equally close?_

_After a minute, she pulled away, blinking quickly, before she went back to patching up the two bedraggled boys sitting in her kitchen._

_Steve sucked in a little breath when his mother dabbed what she called ‘rubbing alcohol’ on his cut cheek, but he didn’t pull away. “Alright, laddie,” Mrs. Rogers murmured. “Sure, I think you can get off without any stitches. But you’ll have to bandage it for a few days at least, until it heals.” She leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Darling laddie boy.”_

That _Steve ducked away from, embarrassed, but Bucky felt another rush of guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice._

_When she turned her head, there was a confused look on her face. “Whatever for, lad?”_

_“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them.” He glanced again at Steve’s cuts, split lip, and bruises. Bucky’s face didn’t feel much better and his shirt had gotten torn underneath his jacket. Steve’s pants were stained and muddy. “There were too many.”_

_“Oh, Bucky,” Mrs. Rogers started, but Steve was speaking. “Three of them were beating up Bucky, Mam._ Three!”

_“And Georgie just held Steve and kept punching him in the face. I couldn’t get there to stop him! I hate him!” Bucky spat._

_“But we’re not supposed to hate,” Steve objected, but he turned to his mother. “They’re just so mean. They keep beating up the other kids. And they don’t like us because we want them to stop. It’s not fair!”_

_Faced with two angry, frustrated boys, Mrs. Rogers sat back in her own chair, and looked at them, tilting her head to one side. Her reddish-blonde hair was in a braid, but like always after work at the hospital, little bits had come loose and were hanging in wisps around her face. She had tired sort of lines in her face, and she looked at them seriously._

_“Oh, Bucky, Steven.” She sighed. Then she looked directly at Bucky. “Did you do your very best to help Steve?”_

_“Yeah! I mean, yes, ma’am! But there were too many, an’ I couldn’t–”_

_“Steve, did you do your best to help Bucky?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Then there’s no reason to be sorry. They are bullies, and you’re going to meet bullies in worse places than the street on the way home from school. We should always try to stop cruel things without hurting anyone ourselves. But sometimes we have no choice.” She leaned forward to place her left hand on Steve’s shoulder and her right on Bucky’s._

_“Don’t fight because you hate someone. Fight to protect other people, and when someone needs to stop doing something wrong. I’m… proud of you. Steve, you should stand up for the other kids, even though it makes Georgie hate you. And Bucky, thank you for standing by him. I don’t want you getting hurt, so_ please _try not to get into fights. But… don’t stand by and let them hurt others. Your father didn’t, and neither should you.”_

_Bucky was confused for a minute; what did she know about his father? But then he realized that last sentence had been directed at Steve._

_A rapping at the front door interrupted the moment. “Sure, and who could that be?” Mrs. Rogers said, getting up._

_Bucky and Steve sat quietly, thinking, and watching as Steve’s mother went to answer the knock._

_“Sarah!” Bucky heard a woman exclaim, “And it be feeling like an age and a half since I saw you last!”_

_“And that when we live across the street from each other!” Steve’s mother laughed._

_Bucky glanced over at Steve. “Your mam’s name is Sarah?”_

_“Uhuh.” Steve nodded._

_“And yours is Steve. Why do they both start with ‘s’?”_

_Steve shrugged this time. “I don’t know.”_

Bucky smiled, brushed his fingers across the drawing, the brightness Steve had captured in his mother’s face as she turned from the kitchen sink to smile at Bucky, who was leaning against the counter, head cocked in a question. Aunt Sarah, he’d soon come to call her. She and Steve had been his rock in the middle of the hard times, when his own family got turned upside-down. She and Bucky’s mother really had become like sisters.

He remembered suddenly, coming to in that warehouse in Germany, his head hurting, his lungs raw, from taking on water and having it drained out of him, he guessed. He had looked up, found Steve, something clear against the fog of his brain.

_“Steve?”_

_Hope flickered behind his guarded gaze. “Which Bucky am I talking to?”_

_Just his name in Steve’s voice, brought memories to the surface, some fuzzy, some clearer. He was Bucky. And Steve… “Your mom’s name was Sarah.” Another picture of her folding newspapers to line her son’s shoes, to make them last longer, and Steve had always kept on doing that, and Bucky had never laughed at him… “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” But he was chuckling now._

_Steve… Steve was smiling, his eyes going soft. Remembering…_

_“Can’t read that in a museum,” he said, and Bucky heard the teasing note in his voice, his old habit of quoting people back to themselves._

_“Just like that we’re supposed to be cool?” Bucky couldn’t remember the other man’s name, but he heard the suspicion and… fear? in his voice._

He blinked, warding off the rest of that conversation with Sam, holding on to that moment when he had been able to make Steve smile.

All it had taken was two sentences that didn’t even sound like they were connected. But Steve had understood, Steve had _known_. In two years on the run, Bucky had never known that feeling, not once.

He glanced up, let his gaze wander around the walls of his hut. Dozens of sketches of everything from a jeep they’d driven in the war, to Stephanie the sheep, to Bucky’s little sisters. There were trees and flowers and the Empire State Building. A drawing of a black panther perched on a rock ledge, which Bucky planned to give to T’Challa when he next saw him. The little boys with wildly painted faces, giggling. A campfire. Bucky on the beach at Coney Island, chasing the gulls.

All of them were stuck up on the walls with some kind of rubber cement that wasn’t permanent, except for one.

Steve had given it to him a couple days after, well, after the really bad day. It was bigger than the others for one thing, but it was also framed; Steve said he had taken it to Nomlanga, asking him to ‘do something fancy’. And it was, without being too fancy and distracting from Steve’s work of art. For some reason, Bucky got a lump in his throat every time he actually stopped to look at it. To him it was the most beautiful drawing he’d ever seen.

A huge wolf that, even in a greyscale sketch, was obviously pure white, sat in the grass, upright, alert. His eyes held watchfulness; the lines of his body were firm without being tense. Between the big front paws, a little grey lamb slept, curled up in a loose ‘U’ shape, chin resting on its spindly little front legs, eyes closed in utter peace and safety. Just to the side, a small bird perched on a rock, head cocked, watching them.

The strangest thing was how the wolf’s eyes matched Bucky’s. He didn’t know if Steve had done it on purpose, and hadn’t been able to find the words to ask anyway. After putting a nail in the wall and hanging it up, Bucky had turned to hug Steve for a long, long time.

Bucky sighed, closed the sketchbook in his lap. He’d really started getting used to Steve being with him, but he was also getting used to him being gone. He glanced over at the desk where his cellphone lay, half-expecting it to ring right then.

It didn’t.

But there was just enough of Steve’s lingering presence—the way his bed was made, the set of clothes left hanging on the chair (Bucky would throw those in the wash), the drawing things stacked on the desk, the sketches that covered the walls—to be a comfort. Even as it made him miss his brother more.

Steve had texted him the day before: _Sorry, this is going to take longer. I’ll be back._ He’d added: _We are ok,_ heading off Bucky’s question.

It was so quiet. Bucky set the book aside, lay down, turned the light off.

He didn’t know how long it was before he fell asleep.

He dreamed.

_Tall buildings, the skyline of New York. The view from Brooklyn Bridge, the wind in their hair, laughing._

_Steve ran ahead, Bucky calling, “Wait for me!”_

_Then Steve stumbled, fell, he was down, lying on the pavement. Someone stood over him, several someones. Bucky ran faster._

_Steve was getting up, pulling himself to his feet like he always did, blood running from his nose, bruises and dirt on his face._

_And Bucky was beside him, they were fighting back-to-back, Bucky thrilling to the play of his muscles, the sweat on his face._

_No, it wasn’t sweat, it was rain, a torrential downpour, he and Steve whooping and spinning in the street, the puddles splashing up around their ankles._

_They were in the trenches, running through the mud, he was leading his men, Dum-Dum’s voice behind him, Steve was gone._

_There was an explosion, it knocked him sideways and he lay still, dazed. He had the vague sense that something terrible was happening, people doing things to him, his hands and feet tied down, screaming…_

_Steve bent over him, calling his name, helping him sit up, patting him all over to make sure nothing was broken. They stood together, watched the factory burn._

_The flames were around him, crashing, the world going to pieces, and Steve was looking up at him, saying, “I’m with you to the end of the line.”_

_But the sound was just a car passing, and he was standing in front of the Rogers’ apartment, his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve sort of smiled, but then he was crying. Bucky hugged him hard, held him close._

_Then he was down on his hands and knees, one arm clasping Steve close, covering him with his own body, trying to protect him from the endless rain of punches and kicks._

_He rolled free, pulling Steve with him, and they lay on the ground for several minutes, while a little dog named Sheila barked and jumped around them. They were laughing, throwing handfuls of leaves at each other._

_Now it was snowballs, just the two of them and the girls. They flopped down to make snow angels, giggling. Bucky waved his arms and legs back and forth, sweeping the snow away._

_He reached with his arms, kicked with his legs, swimming down, down, reaching for the shadowy figure below. Reaching… reaching…_

_He was reaching for Steve, eyes matching his in their terror, fingers brushing, before he was falling._

_Falling._

Bucky jerked awake, sucking in a breath of the air that seemed horribly loud. He stilled himself, taking the softest breaths he could manage, letting his surroundings come back to him. Slowly he relaxed, sinking back onto the pillow, groggy with sleep.

Ugh, he was so tired. His eyes closed on their own.

 _Falling, he was still falling, no, no_ …

He was awake again, this time sitting up. _Deep breaths_ , he reminded himself, heard Steve’s voice, _“Just breathe, Buck.”_ He reached over to turn the light on, but not very bright.

Bucky shifted, moved back enough to lean against the wall. Rubbed his hand roughly over his face, before letting it drop into his lap.

Ugh, he hated it when that happened. The ‘slideshow’ dreams were not uncommon, but most of the time they just faded away. Sometimes though they ended like this.

He let his head fall sideways, staring at the empty bed on his right. What he’d give for Steve to be here now, just to talk to, to remind him what was real, even to piece together some of the moments he’d seen.

Buck’s gaze drifted to the cellphone again, silent and dark. He really wanted to call Steve, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk interrupting Steve on a mission, or distracting him from helping others.

The only other contact he had was Shuri.

Shuri! He scrambled to his feet, crossed the room, and had the phone in his hand before he paused. Heck, what time was it? Why would she be awake? He should be able to make it through a night without needing someone.

_Stupid! No one’s awake, but you._

_Everyone on the other side of the world is,_ he grumbled back. He sighed, pressed his thumb against the screen to turn it on, stared at the picture of him and Steve. He swallowed hard, a weary sadness pulling at his chest.

Before he could think twice, he muttered, “Call Shuri.”

It vibrated once, before she answered. “Bucky?” Her voice was quick and alert, before he heard a clatter and a muffled curse.

“Why the hell are you awake?” he growled, plopping back down on his sleeping mat.

“I would ask the same of you, except I know the answer. I’m in my workroom at the palace. I finally came up with the equations for calibrating the sensory dynamics on your arm I’m building. I haven’t had time to work on it for weeks, and it came to me just as I was falling asleep, so I’m running tests now. But you probably didn’t call me at… for Bast’s sake! Two in the morning?!”

Bucky half-smiled at her shock. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” He hated how hoarse he sounded, and how quiet she went.

“What’s wrong? Nightmares again?”

“Not… exactly.” Bucky set the phone on the floor, sat back, ran his hand through his hair. “More like… memories. I think.”

“Yes.” She was paying attention, listening.

“He’s always there.” Bucky cleared his throat. “I mean, even if he’s not in the picture, he’s still… nearby. Even memories from the war, he wasn’t there, but it feels like he should. Even though of course I was glad he wasn’t there, because he could never have made it through that hell the way he used to be.” Bucky paused, shook his head, sighed. “But he was always provin’ people wrong. I never really understood it. He got sick with stuff that normal people could die from. I thought he would die, more than once. But he never did. Sometimes it seemed to take forever, but he always pulled through. I once heard Aunt Sarah say to my mom that he fought everything. From the day he was born the doctors said he wouldn’t make it, she said. And she told him to fight. So he did.”

Bucky stopped, unsure suddenly of where he was going with that thought.

Shuri gave a soft laugh. “I believe that. Sarah Rogers must have been a wonderful person.”

“Yeah, she was.” A little smile crossed Bucky’s face. “She called me Bucky right away.”

“How old were you? When you and Steve met? It was at school, right?”

“Yeah. I was nine, he was eight.” Buck tilted his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, recalled the point he had been trying to make. “And I can’t remember anything from before that. When I remember my family, the house we had in Brooklyn, school, baseball games, eating supper, anything. He’s just _there.”_

Silence, except for Shuri suddenly muttering something that sounded Greek; it probably was. “Well,” she said, this to Bucky, and he could hear her smiling, “that’s usually how it is with best friends and brothers. Unfortunately. They are in your life and you can’t get them out.”

“But,” Bucky started. “He’s not my real brother.”

“He is in every way that counts.” Shuri had that tone that brooked no argument, and Bucky sighed again.

“That’s what he said, on the helicarrier. He said, ‘You’ve known me your whole life.’” Bucky could also hear the echo of his other words: _“I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend.”_

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I am.”

“Bucky? You sound like you’re falling asleep.”

He roused himself, gave the phone a deep frown. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

She giggled. “Do you think you _can_ sleep now?”

“Maybe. I guess I should at least try.”

“Well, sweet dreams, _ubhuti.”_

Bucky found himself smiling. “Okay. And thanks, Shuri.”

“Come to the palace day after tomorrow, and we’ll watch a movie. Bring the kids, and we’ll be even.”

“But you were up anyway,” Bucky protested, sleepily.

“Goodnight.”

“Yeah…”

The line went dead.

Bucky lay down again, let his eyes rest on the wolf drawing before they closed.

_“You’re my friend.”_

“Right back at’cha, pal,” he whispered.

He slept, quiet and dreamless until morning.

***

It was a day later, when Bucky woke to the soft sound of rain. He knew, even before he opened his eyes, what day it was.

He went about his morning quietly, knowing he should do something for Steve, but unsure of what exactly. Well, he could at least text him.

After checking on the animals, and letting them out (he knew they wouldn’t go far on a wet day), he went back to his hut, dried off a bit, and grabbed his phone. The date stared at him from the screen: October 15. He was standing in the kitchen when it came to him.

He typed quickly.

_I’m here._

_To the end of the line._

Even as he laid the phone on the table, it was ringing. A normal ringing sound now. _Thank you, Shuri._

“Steve?” he asked, tentatively, moving to sit against the front door frame, just out of the drizzle.

“Hey.” Steve sounded subdued.

“Where are you?”

“In bed.”

Steve never gave more details than his immediate surroundings, and that was really all Bucky wanted. “Anyone bringing you breakfast?”

“No. Just not hungry.”

Bucky hesitated, unsure if he should… He should. “She knew how to cook bacon, didn’t she.”

“Yeah, you never could get it quite right.”

“Come on, you were just a picky eater.”

“No, I had higher standards than you.”

“And whatever happened to those standards?”

Steve snorted. “I joined the army.”

There was a moment’s quiet, before Steve said, “Did I ever tell you about the time she dressed up as Greta Garbo and went out with me on Hallowe’en?”

Bucky laughed in surprise. “She what?”

 

 _All day, all night_  
_I keep pressing rewind_  
_All day, all night_  
_I remember_  
_We were young, we were wild_  
_We were half-way free_  
_We were kids on the run_  
_On a dead-end street_  
_Looking back in the rear-view mirror_  
_You know the view used to be much clearer_  
_But we’ll laugh and we’ll cry ‘til there’s no more tears_  
_And tonight can we just hold on to those 18 years_

_-’18 Years’ by Daughtry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I can't believe it's 4 weeks, 28 days 'til Endgame and I finish up this story.  
> I hope to throw out another mid-week chapter or two, just cause there's so much I want to say.  
> I will post the special epilogue on April 24, day before Endgame just because I want to break all our hearts one last time. And there will be a surprise then too! I've been working hard on it, and hope I can have it ready in time... well, you'll see!  
> Thanks for reading, everyone!


	19. That's Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited from March 30 and reposted.  
> I want to thank tianaprincess for really making me think about how I'd written this chapter, and the places where my point was unclear. (And for saying nice things anyway.) 
> 
> Set first week(s) of December. Two months have passed.

_He heard it on the radio, crowded together with a dozen other men in the superintendent’s office. A mixture of fear, anger, and excitement made the air thick and difficult to breathe._

_The president’s speech couldn’t have been more than four minutes long, but Bucky would only ever remember a few snatches:_ “...December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy… measures be taken for our defense… defend ourselves to the uttermost… no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger… a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire."

_It seemed like moments, and it seemed like forever, before they were back out in the clear, cold air, wandering back toward the leeward side of the building where they ate their lunches._

_Around Bucky some workers talked and gestured, voices rising and falling sharply, while others were silent and dazed. The war had been going on for over two years now, but it had been outside their lives, away from their shores._

_The attack on Pearl Harbor yesterday, and this subsequent announcement, had brought it all home._

_Bucky… didn’t know what exactly he felt. Because mixed up with everything else there was a certain amount of… relief. America was in this now; there would be no more holding back._

_“Hey, Barnes.” Someone nudged him. “Bet a young fella like you will be signin’ up right quick.”_

_The sandwich seemed to lose its taste in his mouth, and Bucky swallowed hard. And then there was_ that. _“Dunno. Probably. I’d like to know what they’re doing about Germany and Europe.”_

_The man frowned. “That ain’t our fight.”_

_“Isn’t it all the same fight? As long as there are bullies, someone will have to stop them.” He shrugged, sighed. “Someone once told me, ‘We should always try to stop cruel things without hurting anyone ourselves. But sometimes we have no choice.’ Japan might have attacked us directly, but if the Germans win over in Europe, what’s to stop them from hitting us too? I think my family, my friends, everything we have here in America is worth protecting, and I think it’s worth protecting others' freedom too. Even if it takes a fight.”_

_He glanced around, realized everyone had fallen silent, listening while they ate. “My dad fought in the Great War. Steve’s dad died in it. You think they want this war? Of course not. But my dad once told me, ‘Don’t fight ‘cause you hate someone. If you gotta fight, fight because you love someone else.”_

_But Bucky rode the streetcar home in silence, as the truth settled on him. This was war. He was young, he was strong, he had no wife or kids or essential job to hold him back. Of course the army would want him._

_There was just one thing._

_Steve._

_It was three tense days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and all Bucky could do was watch Steve. They said little, even over meals, but there wasn’t really a need for words. Not now. They’d been in enough debates and arguments, got kicked out of enough bars, and read enough newspapers at home. Bucky understood Steve with a clarity that almost hurt._

_Steve was a fighter; he’d always had to be. But he’d never forgotten his mother’s lessons. The fire that burned in his eyes now was the same instinct that had compelled him to stand up for countless schoolgirls and small children, even as the girls got bigger and the beatings got rougher. Steve could not abide to sit still when innocent people were being threatened._

_And this looked like the biggest threat of all._

_It was the 11 th, a Thursday, when Bucky came home to find Steve standing in the kitchen waiting. _

_“Let’s go,” was all he said._

_When Bucky stood on the doormat, leaned back against the closed front door, and tilted his head to one side, Steve frowned._

_“Buck. This is it. Japan, now Germany, Italy… It’s war. No more sitting around, no more arguments. Our country needs us. The people need us.”_

_“You think I don’t know that?” The words came out a little sharper than Bucky intended, and he twisted his mouth to one side, trying to find the words. “Course they need us. We’ll do our bit. But… can we wait ‘til after Christmas?”_

_For a moment Steve frowned even deeper._

_“It’s only two weeks,” Bucky continued, watching his friend’s face soften as he seemed to understand what Buck was driving at. “If we’re gonna go to war, it’d be nice to have one last good Christmas together. With the family.”_

_Steve sighed as he nodded slowly, then turned away to cough into his arm._

_“Give you a chance to get rid of that, too,” Bucky added._

_But the image of Steve’s thin shoulders and the deeper hitch in his breathing when he stopped coughing and turned to start supper, stayed with Bucky. It was a truth that made his heart hurt._

_They would never take Steve. But they would definitely take Bucky._

_Two weeks until Christmas, and one last chance to celebrate with his family. Including Steve. Of course Bucky would go to war, he’d fight for his country, he’d do his part… He felt a surge of pride and determination at the thought._

_Until he glanced over at Steve clattering around the stove._

_And poor Steve would be stuck at home, alone, with nothing but his art to keep him company._

_Bucky was drying his hands on the roller towel when he spoke. “You are the toughest idiot in New York, that’s for sure. German soldiers would be nuts to mess with you.”_

_Steve turned his head, gave a sudden real smile, and threw the knife across the room. Bucky caught it gracefully, adding a fancy spin, and finishing with a bow._

Bucky twirled his pen between his fingers, sat back, and suddenly realized how close his morning porridge was to burning. He moved quickly to rescue it, the memories starting to fade into the background.

He didn’t remember exactly what Steve had said after that, something about Bucky dancing across the battlefield like the Pied Piper and making the Germans step? But there was one more thing he wanted to write down, just so it was clear.

_I wanted to go, I wanted to ~~fight~~ protect my country, I wanted to protect him. But I didn’t want to see his face when they turned him down._

_I also didn’t want to go alone. Figures that he was the one who found me when I was most alone._

_I was fighting so he could be free. He's the one who set me free._

_And I wouldn’t change that part. I wouldn't change what I did then. Because I did it for him._

At the bottom of the page he scribbled the day’s date: _December 7, 2017._

***

They were eating supper that night, Bucky, Umkhulu, Khanyiswa, and the kids, joined this evening by Jongikhaya, his wife and four children, when Steve came back. The sun was still up, what with summer solstice coming, and there was probably going to be a beautiful sunset.

Buck heard the Quin first, glanced up to see it pass just to the north, before dipping behind a hill; he knew Steve’s favorite spot to leave it, just on the edge of the forest.

When he turned back to the people gathered around, it seemed that no one but Umkhulu had noticed. She was grinning widely, and made a quick shushing gesture at him. He smiled back. It would be fun to let the kids be surprised.

It was already a feast; Bucky had spent much of the previous day helping Umkhulu butcher two yearling lambs she had bought, and in thanks she had given him some of the meat. Which made the perfect excuse to have company for supper. He always enjoyed giving back to these wonderful people, but if Steve were here it would be even better. He hadn't said exactly what day he would be returning, but Bucky knew Steve would be back for Christmas. Last Bucky heard he would be bringing Sam, Nat, and Wanda too.

Khwezi tossed the bone he had been gnawing on to Jongikhaya’s dog, who happily settled down to chew. Bucky chuckled.

“Finished so soon?” he asked.

“I’m full.” The little boy sprawled back on the ground.

“How many apricots did you eat today when we were picking?”

A shrug, his shoulders coming up to his ears, and his gaze slid away from Bucky’s. _“Bambalwa kuphela.”_

“A few, huh? Maybe that was a few too many.”

 _“Hayi._ You can’t eat too many apricots.”

“Says you. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you tomorrow.”

Between talking and eating, Bucky kept glancing off in the direction Steve should come from. But Steve still surprised him. One moment he wasn’t there, the next time Bucky looked back, he was walking down the gentle slope of the hill, the setting sun throwing his shadow out to one side.

Even from that distance their eyes connected, and Steve picked up his pace. He was maybe a hundred yards off, when Bucky said, “Hey, look who’s here.”

Avi was the first on his feet, followed by Nontasasa, before the whole gang was off, racing over the grass to meet the big white man.

Bucky was laughing as he jumped up himself, pausing when Umkhulu offered her hand for him to help her up. Which he did with a little more dispatch than usual.

“Go ahead,” she grinned, waving him away, and he wheeled to jog after the children. At least, he meant to jog, but somehow it turned into a run.

Nontasasa had easily outstripped the others, and Bucky saw Steve stop and catch her up and twirl her around, before setting her down so she could wrap her arms around his waist. He glanced up, saw Buck put on the brakes to pick up Mabhuti who had stumbled behind, and a grin split through the beard.

Bucky couldn’t help but grin back, as he followed the kids the rest of the way at a quick walk.

“Steve! Steve!” Mabhuti was squirming now, so Bucky set him down to run the last couple yards.

For a minute or two Bucky just stood back and watched his best friend get mobbed. With Mabhuti in one arm, it was a struggle for Steve to distribute his free hand fairly among eight children. Even Jongikhaya’s kids seemed to forget their usual shyness, hugging any part of Steve they could reach.

The rest of the adults came up behind Bucky as he stood there, and Jongikhaya called, _“Bam bantwana.”_

The tide ebbed away from Steve, and Bucky finally moved in for a hug of his own.

“Hey, Buck,” was all Steve said, before wrapping his free arm around his friend’s neck. Bucky put as much strength as he could into his own squeeze, glad for the solidity of the other man.

“Missed you,” he mumbled, the words popping out on their own. Immediately he felt embarrassed, but Steve just chuckled.

“Missed you too, pal.”

Steve didn’t let go until Bucky stepped back, fighting a rush of emotions. Odd that it should hit him now, the truth of how _much_ he’d been missing Steve, when Steve was right there in front of him.

Steve smiled at him, and Bucky managed a shaky grin in response: the blessing of friends who understand without words.

“I missed you too,” Mabhuti said, not one to be left out.

"You mean you missed being so tall." Steve poked him in the stomach and he giggled agreeably. “Okay, son, up you go.” Steve lifted the little boy to sit on his shoulders, and turned to drape an arm around Bucky’s neck.

“You bring the others?” Bucky asked, when he trusted his voice not to sound funny.

“Yeah.” Steve gave a lopsided grin. “Sam told me to go on. Said he could carry my stuff and his ‘just fine, thank you.’”

Okay, that was something he’d have to tease Sam about later.

***

The next morning was a soft, misty one and Bucky thought he’d never seen Wakanda looking quite so beautiful.

“The grass is so green now,” Steve said, walking with him to check on the flock. Sam had yet to stir from his bed and Nat and Wanda were staying with other families.

“Yeah, you missed most of the rains.” Bucky leaned on the fence, counted heads. “Jongikhaya said they’ll stop next week.”

Steve rested his forearms on the top rail, stared at the waking animals, but Bucky could tell he wasn’t really seeing them.

“What’s eating you?”

Steve blinked, looked down. Shrugged. “Nothing. Really.”

“Everything alright with you and Sharon?”

A quick smile flitted across his face. “Yeah.”

“She did a lot for you, you know. Really risked her whole career to help a good looking outlaw.”

“Nah, I’m just her next-door neighbor who has weird friends.” He reached to throw a half-headlock on Bucky, but stopped with his arm around Bucky’s neck. “Yeah,” he said, suddenly serious. “She’s pretty amazing.”

“But?” Bucky let himself lean into Steve, content to wait for an answer.

It was a few minutes forthcoming.

“She’s there, you’re here, I’m illegal, so are the others, and Tony and everyone back home–” A sharp breath released in a sigh.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered.

“It’s hard.”

“You thinking of taking it back?”

“No.” The word was quiet, but there was no hesitation, no wavering. “I can’t.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

Steve made a noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh. “You know me.”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s arm tightened around him, and Bucky turned into the half-hug, making it a full one. They stood for a minute, before Steve eased back, hands on Bucky’s shoulders, looking at him.

“You’re okay.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and Bucky gave Steve a quizzical half-smile, but didn’t say anything. There was a look of almost wonder in Steve’s eyes and… not disbelief, but… The lines in his face, which Bucky rarely noticed, looked suddenly softer, smoothed over by what Bucky could only think of as a look of peace. Whatever it was, he had no memory of seeing it quite that way before, and he knew instinctively that he never wanted to forget it.

“You are okay,” Steve said softly, and then he pulled Buck back in for an even tighter hug.

Bucky could hear a little hitch in his breathing, and tilted his head to nudge against the blond’s. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something teasing, but he hesitated.

He heard Steve say something, so soft he was probably talking to himself, but Bucky heard it anyway. “You’re worth it. You are worth it.”

***

Steve closed his eyes, let his hold on Bucky relax into a more comfortable embrace. The other man’s palm pressed firm against the back of his right shoulder, his breathing steady in Steve’s ear.

The warm, solid reality of Bucky filled Steve’s heart with a deep sense of satisfaction, a feeling he’d almost forgotten existed. He could feel it spilling over, reaching down into the depths of his being, the sure knowledge that he had done something good, that everything he’d given up and broken and poured out, was worth it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help people in general, he would always work for freedom and justice wherever he was. But there was a randomness to these recent missions especially, a lack of single purpose, that made it just a little more wearying.

When he’d first woken up, after believing his part of the fight was over, there had been the battle in New York, then working for SHIELD, then teaming with the Avengers to hunt Hydra, while he hunted for Bucky. Well, he’d lost SHIELD, he’d lost the Avengers, officially anyway, and… he had Bucky back.

Of course he hadn’t lost everything. All his friends who held him up: Sharon, who reminded him he could fall in love again; Sam, who let him know he wasn’t alone; Nat, who trusted him; Wanda, who had found her own way to heal, to live again. Like Bucky.

And Bucky… Bucky was ALIVE!

Not just in the sense of still breathing, although thank God that was the case; it was more. He had a LIFE, he had friends and work and dirt on his hands and animals to work with and little kids to look up to him. He could wrestle with Steve, and look Sam in the eye, and tease Shuri. He could smile and frown and laugh and get angry and cry and talk.

He was Bucky Barnes and Steve had him right here, right now, and…

“You’re worth it,” he murmured. “You’re worth it.”

Oh, shoot, he was crying. He started to pull back, and Bucky let him.

“Hard week, huh?” he asked, as they propped their elbows on the fence rail again and Steve let his shoulder press against Bucky’s.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he sniffed, swiping his hand across his face. He looked at Bucky, who tilted his head, with a faintly puzzled grin that was as familiar as the sunlight breaking out from the clouds.

“Thanks.”

His eyes seemed to almost laugh with confusion. “For what?”

“Everything.”

***

The rain had stopped.

Bucky found himself awake, listening to Steve and Sam breathe, something he’d gotten used to over the last few days. Wait, that was only Steve. He blinked, silently sitting up, and glancing across the room. No Sam.

Of course, he wondered how Sam could have snuck out on him, but that wasn’t his main concern. He cocked his head, listened. A crackle from the fire outside, logs shifting, someone sighed.

Bucky glanced down at Steve, sleeping peacefully. A little smile tugged at his lips, and he got up, leaving the hut without a sound.

Sam sat cross-legged, not caring about the wet ground, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, staring into the flames. Somehow he’d found enough dry wood to get it going again.

“Sam?”

Bucky had never really called him by his first name before, but there was something about the other man’s demeanor that begged for more than the comradely, “Wilson.”

Sam’s head jerked up, glancing over like he was expecting someone… Someone other than Bucky, he guessed, by the way the man’s face fell. He went back to staring into the fire, managing a single, “Hey.”

Bucky watched him for a minute, unsure. He’d seemed okay, especially after the storm finally moved on. He’d joked with them over supper, and gone to bed at the same time. But clearly, something still bothered him.

“Want a beer?”

He didn’t wait for Sam to answer, just ducked back inside, grabbed two bottles off the shelf, and returned to drop one in Sam’s lap. He sat perpendicular to the other man, popped the cap with his bare hand. This was pretty good stuff, Bucky thought, as he took a second gulp, letting it swirl over his tongue. Wasn’t the old European stuff he remembered from the war, but for Africans they knew how to make it. The label was from Madagascar.

“Sorry about… earlier.”

Bucky glanced up, frowned at Sam. “Why should you be sorry?”

Sam shrugged, turned the bottle over in his hands. Bucky snagged it, took the cap off, handed it back. Sam gave a little huff that might have been a laugh, before taking a swig. He swallowed, shrugged.

“I usually break stuff when I get flashbacks,” Bucky said. “Like Steve’s nose.” He winced at that memory.

Another silence, and Bucky wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. It might have sounded like he was belittling Sam’s struggles. “It was the thunder, right?”

“Yeah. Sounds like a bomb. He was flying on my left. RPG nailed him, not me. I see him falling…” Sam clenched his jaw, ducked his head, breathed deep through his nose few times.

“Yeah.”

Sam sighed, tapped his fingers against the bottle. “Haven’t had one like that in a while. Don’t know why.” He shrugged. “Being with the Smiths, seeing Brandon.” He lifted his head now, stared out into the dark night. “He’d be thirty-five tomorrow. Or today, I guess.”

Bucky recalled something Sam had said, when they called from Texas: _“…we ran into Brandon on our way. Ri’s little brother. He’s with the National Guard, and we ended up helping... Like seein’ Riley’s ghost, except he’s quiet, like Ri was loud. Heckuva soldier. He’d be proud.”_ So it was Riley’s birthday. That meant he was a few years older than Sam.

“You ever tease him about it being a few weeks before Christmas?”

Sam sucked in a breath, hunched his shoulders. “He died in October. I was supposed to finish up after New Year’s. When December rolled around… I knew I couldn’t take it anymore.” Two quick gulps from the bottle. “’round him Christmas wasn’t one day, it was twelve. Started December 11th.”

“Did you do anything special?” Bucky took another drink.

“Always.” Sam’s voice dropped a notch, softening too, like he was tired of sounding strong and fine. Like all he really wanted right now was to be there with his friend celebrating the day he was born. “He had this thing where _he_ was the one who gave presents. If we had a day off, he’d take a whole gang out. Find a good restaurant, make us get whatever we wanted. First time, I told him he was crazy. He just laughed, said, ‘Sure, a crazy good guy.’ We sat at the bar, watched the Cowboys play. I was never a football fan.”

With the alcohol loosening his tongue, Sam’s voice dropped to a low ramble. “He said once he could have been a football player. Except he wasted his high school years. His dad was a doctor, Ms. Mary-Jo was a paramedic. That’s why he finally worked his way around to para-rescue. I just… kinda followed him. Always knew I wanted to do something important, something… hard. That’s about the hardest thing you can pick in the Air Force. The kind of thing my dad would have liked.”

Another long silence.

“You’d think the day he died would be harder. But that… that only happened once. Celebrated his birthday four, five times. I only knew him five, almost six, years. Best friend I ever had. We knew each other four years and he made _me_ best man at his wedding.”

Bucky glanced up, watched the light and shadows flicker across Sam’s face.

“He never met Sammy. She wasn’t even born when he died. She says she’s gonna grow up and help people like her dad.”

“Sounds like another soldier I know,” Bucky murmured.

“We saved a lot of guys. With the Falcons we could go so many more places. I got my wings shot out once. He caught me. He caught me, got us both down safely, told me I was the one person he didn’t feel like piecing back together, so I needed to be more careful. And then it wasn’t me. It was him.”

Sam was crying. One tear followed another down his cheeks, and the words came choked and ragged.

“And I… couldn’t do it. I couldn’t… put him back together. The best friend I’d had… and I couldn’t do it. If I’d… caught him before... he hit the ground, I could have… saved him.”

He caught a breath, face working and twitching, trying to hold the emotions back, even as the words insisted on being spoken. “It should… have been… me. He should be… in Texas… with Rae and Sam-my. Wish I could say… I’m sor-ry.”

Bucky knew there were things he could say, but he knew he didn’t need to. Sam had preached to Steve enough, he knew the truth. What he needed now was just… a friend. Bucky hesitated, before reaching across the space between them to rest his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Just that touch seemed to be enough, Sam bowed his head, covered his face with one hand.

They sat for a while like that, until Bucky felt the tremble in the other man die down. Sam lifted his head slowly, the firelight gleaming on his wet face. Wiped his hand across his cheeks, sniffed. After a moment, he lifted the bottle to his lips took a long drink.

Bucky gave his shoulder a light squeeze before letting go. Sam glanced at him, gave a little nod, before they went back to staring into the flames.

The more Bucky thought about ‘what could have been’ the more he realized something. Without Sam… Steve wouldn’t be here. Bucky probably wouldn’t either. Especially during the fights between Steve and the Winter Soldier, and then the two years when he’d stood by Steve when Bucky couldn’t.

Steve didn’t even really have to say it, Bucky easily recognized how he had come to lean on Sam.

But he was important to Bucky too. Sam was like Dr. Dal, a person who had enough distance from Bucky’s memories to take the pain without the guilt. But more than that, he understood things about being a soldier, about war, about losing your brother and losing your hope.

He’d never been afraid to tease Bucky, to grudge him—in a friendly way—about almost killing him… he’d never been afraid of _Bucky_.

“Thank you.” The words were unplanned, and Bucky knew he should elaborate. He sensed Sam’s glance, kept talking.

“Steve can be a handful, I know. He couldn’t do this without you. So yeah, thanks.” Bucky sucked in a deep breath. “I think Riley would be really, really proud of you. What you’ve done. With your life. You were exactly who Steve needed when everything happened. With me. Thanks. For taking care of him. When I can’t.”

He bowed his head, twisted the almost empty bottle in his hand. “Steve’s done so much for me. Too much. But he says… he says I’m worth it. I think… I think Riley would say the same. That’s why we do it, right? To take the bullets so someone else doesn’t have to. He wouldn’t have flown with you if he didn’t think that.”

There was a long silence, during which Bucky didn’t dare look at Sam. Suddenly he was terrified he’d said the wrong thing. Maybe he’d hurt Sam even more…

Wait, was that a chuckle? Yeah, that was definitely some kind of laugh.

He was startled enough to look up. Sam’s smile was crooked and teasing. “Gosh, you sound just like Steve. You two have known each other _waaaay_ too long.”

Bucky snorted. “Ha. Just give us another seventy years.”

“Oh, _no._ I don’t even want to think what you idiots could put me through in _seven_ years, least if the past three are any indication.”

Buck smirked. “He ever tell you about the time he–”

“I don’t wanna _know.”_

“He’s already heard that one.”

Steve had paused to lean against the doorframe, but now he came forward, beer bottle in hand. “Maybe it’s my turn to tell a few stories.” He stepped into the space between Bucky and Sam, Bucky moving over to make room.

The three men sat cross legged around the fire, the clouds beginning to break above their heads, the stars peeking through.

“To friends,” Sam said suddenly, leaning forward and holding out his drink, “who can’t be here.”

“And those that are,” Bucky added, leaning in from Steve’s other side.

“Cause both are the reason we’re here,” Steve said.

The clinking of the bottles drifted up into the night sky.

 

 _When you sacrifice for someone else_  
_And you put them before yourself_  
_And you don't think about what you're giving up_  
_That's love_

_-‘That's Love' by Matt Kennon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan:  
>  _Bambalwa kuphela_ : Only a few  
>  _Hayi_ : no  
>  _Bam bantwana_ : my children
> 
> I've always felt that song was missing a soldier's/sibling verse, so consider this chapter it.
> 
> A thousand thanks to Karen for listening, and an ark-full more to Ari (and Carolyn) for the inspiration. Whether you realized it or not.  
> I'm glad to know I'm not alone.


	20. Tell Your Heart to Beat Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is... late.  
> It's been an emotionally and physically challenging two weeks for me, and this was not what I originally thought it would be, but I hope it's what I needed. Hope you enjoy!  
> Oh, and there's some farming stuff, but things being born is too amazing to get squeamish over! :)  
> (Love you, big sis. This one's for you.)

_Bucky didn’t even realize he was staring, until Steve glanced over at him and raised his eyebrows. “What, you don’t like it?” he asked, glancing down at his uniform, the grey and blue with muted red straps across the front, and a white star on the chest; all far more practical than that get-up he’d had on that first mission. When Steve glanced back at Bucky, with a teasing little smile, Bucky had to blink. In that uniform he looked like a hero, he looked… like the Steve Bucky had always seen, no difference._

_“Turn. Turn,” Gabe called in a high falsetto, like a dressmaker talking to a model, gesturing with one hand._

_Steve rolled his eyes, but before he could say something, Howard called his name across the room. As he turned his back to Bucky, Bucky’s eyes zeroed in on the shining silver star smack in the middle of the shield that covered Steve’s back._

_“So, you planning on wearing a target on your back all the time?”_

_He also didn’t realize that he’d spoken aloud, until Steve turned back, and looked at him. Bucky gave him a heavy frown, suddenly wondering how much worry had crept into his voice._

_“Well, you’re supposed to be the only one watching it.” Steve raised one eyebrow._

_“Yeah, everyone else is supposed to be too busy running away,” Jim said from where he sat, codebook in one hand, a half-eaten apple in the other._

_“Though why they would want to run away from a teddy bear like him, I wouldn’t understand.” Howard came up beside Steve, cocking his head to give Steve an appraising glance. “Thank God, I didn’t have to go on a tour circuit with you or I wouldn’t have gotten a single dame to spend an hour with, let alone a night.”_

_Howard Stark’s woman-chasing ways were pretty famous and there was some jeering and catcalls. He just grinned at Bucky and rapped his knuckles on the edge of the shield, producing a faint ring. “Strongest metal on earth right here. It might be shaped like a garbage can lid, but it sure as heck ain’t one.”_

_Steve went red, and there was more laughter, as he gave Bucky a little glare. Bucky let himself smirk; no, he did not regret telling stories of Steve’s back alley fights, someone had to keep this little punk in line. And someone had to protect him. Even if Howard had helped make Steve into a man who seemed to need no protection._

_“I don’t recall all your inventions succeeding, Stark,” Bucky needled back._

_“Doesn’t that depend on your definition of success?” Howard asked. “No, seriously. Peggy already tested this one.”_

_Bucky caught an odd rueful look on Steve’s face, and figured he’d ask about that later._

_“Guess it’s our job to keep anyone else from testing it,” Dum-Dum drawled._

_Bucky glanced down at the sleek rifle resting across his lap, smoothed his hand across the barrel. “Got that right,” he murmured._

_When he looked up, he saw the way Steve looked at him, like he’d heard._

_Steve smiled._

_“How’s that rifle look, Sarge?” Howard asked._

Bucky released a slow breath, opened his eyes, squinted at the bright sunlight. He couldn’t help wishing it wasn’t such a nice day; it should be raining, or at least cloudy.

It was fun having Steve’s friends around, but sometimes it made it hard for Bucky to think, and he had to slip away. Last year, he’d woken up on the 19th of December, which Sam wasn’t letting him forget with all his teasing talk of a party. A year ago, Bucky had been too busy taking in the new realities of his life, from Steve’s presence to Shuri’s confidence. But now he was unable to avoid the date that was seared into his memory, a date he knew would never lose its sense of pain and loss.

 _“Some ghosts will never leave, some scars never fade. And that’s alright. It’s how you live with them that matters.”_ Dr. Dal had said that.

He pulled his legs up to wrap his arm around them, tipping his head back against the rough bark of the tree, and became aware of someone watching him. Without moving anything but his eyes, Bucky searched the landscape, finally turning his head ever so slightly, to find Steve and Sam standing at a little distance.

He hesitated. If he made no sign of acknowledgement, Steve would leave him alone. But…

He met Steve’s gaze across the distance, and the man smiled in response, walking toward him now, Sam trailing a little behind.

“Hey,” was all Steve said, before he sank down on Bucky’s left.

Bucky couldn’t answer for a minute; he had Steve’s goodness and strength beside him now to consider, and a sudden gratefulness for the way Sam hung back, giving them their space. He swallowed hard, mentally found his way back to where he had been.

_December 16._

“I wonder what Maria was like,” he said softly, not looking at Steve. “She must have been something to put up with him.”

“Yeah.”

A single word, but it softly undid the hard, aching knot in Bucky’s chest, and he could look Steve in the eye when he spoke again.

“I killed them. I killed Howard.” He voice sounded raw, even to his own ears. “He was a friend. He was the one who made that stupid shield that protected you from so many…” he gulped, “that saved your life so many times. And I killed him. It was my hands that did it.”

And then Bucky had to look away, because he didn’t know what Steve would say, and he didn’t want to hear a _‘no it’s not your fault’_ or a _‘yeah’_ , because he didn’t have the energy to fight the one, and he couldn’t stand the condemnation of the other.

Steve said nothing. He reached to wrap an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pull him closer, and Bucky closed his eyes, let himself lean in. He was aware of Sam quietly taking a seat on Steve’s other side.

“He was a good guy,” Steve said softly. “A pain in the neck, for sure. Who knew we’d become friends with the guy who blew up his flying car at the World’s Fair? Gotta say it had me a little worried when I saw him at the controls, that day they gave me the serum.”

Was that a snort from Sam?

“He was always confident, cocky, liked to blur the line between genius and nuts. But he did care about people. He always did his best to make sure we had what we needed to protect ourselves and each other. He was proud of us.”

“Sounds like Tony,” Sam said.

There was a many layered silence.

Bucky felt an extra heaviness in Steve’s spirit at the mention of his former friend’s name, heard the regret in his voice when he murmured, “Yeah.”

They had talked about the fight in Siberia, in the short time they’d had together in Wakanda, before Bucky chose to go back into cryo.

_“Why didn’t you tell him?”_

_“I didn’t know. That they used you. Until you told about that mission.”_

_“Well then, it wasn’t like you had much of a chance. Not something you can talk about in a fight at an airport, or in a HYDRA bunker when I’m right there.” (Those words came hard.)_

_“Maybe. But I knew it was HYDRA. I could have–”_

_“What would be the point?” (Comforting Steve was automatic, something that ran so deep it steadied him. Even if the source of distress was himself.) “That’s not something you just talk about. And how could you have known it would all blow up like that?”_

_“But I could have tried. I could have at least tried. And I didn’t even do that.”_

Steve had cried then, worn and tired and hurting as he was, and Bucky remembered being at a loss for words, able to do nothing but hold his friend, just as worn, tired, and hurting himself.

Now Bucky stretched his legs out, let himself sink further into Steve’s side, knocked his foot against Steve’s.

“What will you say the next time you see him?”

Steve sucked in a long, slow breath. “I… don’t know.”

“Knowing you two,” Sam muttered, “it’ll probably be the end of the world, and it won’t even matter.”

Steve smiled sadly. “I hope not.”

Bucky frowned. “Thank you for that observation, Wilson,” he grumbled.

Steve sighed. “Don’t start, guys.”

This time the silence was easier.

Steve pulled away, and Bucky sat up straight, turning his head to meet his friend’s gaze. His strong hand stayed on the back of Buck’s neck.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Steve said softly. "The Winter Soldier did it, not you. Not Bucky."

Bucky swallowed hard, glanced down at his own hand, clenched it into a fist, let it relax. “That doesn’t bring them back.”

Steve was quiet for a moment, until Bucky looked back at him.

“I know,” he said.

Bucky saw the sadness, the grief, the regret, the pain; all a reflection of his own eyes. And behind it—shadowed now, but always there—the courage, the brave stubbornness of life, that Bucky could only hope Steve might see in his eyes someday.

“It’s okay, you know,” Sam said gently. “It’s okay to grieve those people.”

Bucky took a shaky breath, remembering how Dr. Dal had told him that. “I… know,” he muttered.

“It’s okay for both of you,” Sam added.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, but he said nothing, just pulled Bucky back into an embrace, and they sat for a time, silent, remembering.

Bucky pressed his face against Steve's shirt, the warm life of the the other man. He could live with the ghosts and the scars, because he wasn't doing it alone.

***

There were easy days and hard days and then there were perfect days, and Bucky knew from first thing Christmas morning, celebrating with the kids over the birth of Mabhuti and Nontasasa’s cousin, that this was going to be a perfect one.

For one thing, Wanda finally gave in and showed off some of her powers: “Only because it’s Christmas.” Of course, she spent almost an hour throwing the kids in the air and catching them. In the afternoon soccer game she sat on the sidelines and pulled endless pranks with the ball and her ‘magic’. Her laughter was infectious and one or another, of the ex-Avengers especially, kept stopping to double over, sharing the merriment.

There were a few gifts passed around that day.

Sam gave Bucky a bandana with crescent moons all over it. “For you to howl at,” he explained, then took his loss in the wrestling match like a man. Thanks to some comments of Sam’s about the wolf drawing on Bucky’s wall, Steve gave the other soldier a detailed drawing of a falcon in full flight, angled in a turn toward the viewer, every line of the feathers, the outstretched talons, and the light in the eye, perfectly captured. No one commented on the ghost of another bird soaring above the first. Sam of course, commandeered the cooking for the day.

Nat surprised Bucky with a new journal, and refused any attempts on his part to thank her. “Just keep making Steve smile,” she said, then turned away as if she had surprised herself.

He was amazed by Steve's gift: a five-inch double edged knife, the blade gleaming soft and smooth and silver. The design on the handle was deceptively simple; up-close it was an intricate pattern of coloured swirls and Wakandan lettering.

"Shuri made it," Steve said quietly. "It's an ordinary knife, but it's pure vibranium. Wanted you to have something better than that old HYDRA blade you've had."

Bucky gripped the handle, felt the light strength of it, then spun it between his fingers. It took a little concentration, where once it had taken none, but he could still do it. He glanced up, met Steve's nervous gaze. He smiled. "Thanks. It was time for something new."

Something in Steve's face made him slip the blade into his belt, and move to pull Steve into a hug. They stood together for a while, hearts beating in time.

Steve was happy with the art supplies and new gloves, but laughed outright at the piece of paper on which Bucky had scribbled: _this is good for a hundred loads of laundry, a thousand meals (give or take), and a life’s supply of apple cake on July 4 th. Here’s to another hundred of those. _Bucky laughed too, at the sheer joy of being able to give something like that.

But perhaps the sweetest moment of the day came after supper, sitting around the fire as darkness fell with Umkhulu, Khanyiswa, and the kids—some nearly asleep. Wanda conjured a guitar from somewhere and shyly started playing Christmas songs, mostly old-fashioned European carols. Steve started singing at once, Wanda adding harmony, Sam joining in, Avi patting his hands on Bucky’s back in time to the music…

Bucky pulled Khwezi closer on one side, leaned into Steve on the other. Mabhuti, curled in Steve’s lap, was fast asleep. Nontasasa sat under her mother’s arm, firelight dancing in her eyes. The voices twined together, rising with the sparks into the night sky to where the stars kept their endless watch.

_What child is this, who laid to rest,_

_On Mary’s lap is sleeping…_

He felt Steve shift, leaning back into Bucky, even as he kept on singing, and Bucky let his head rest on Steve’s shoulder, closed his eyes. He smelled the wood smoke, the dry earth of Africa, the supper they had enjoyed, and underneath that warm comforting scent of Steve.

He could feel the vibrations of Steve’s voice, Khwezi playing with his fingers, the brush of a night breeze on his face.

Bucky opened his eyes, and across the fire met Natasha’s gaze. He gave her a half-smile, and she blinked, looked away. But he had seen the tears standing in her eyes, the look on her face that he’d seen in the mirror so many times: the look of one who should have given up hope long ago, but couldn’t. Because then you met people who showed you that things like hope and purpose, goodness and love, were absolutely possible.

_Hark! the herald angels sing_

_Glory to the newborn king!_

There was no way Bucky could grasp this much happiness, no, this much  _joy._ So he didn't try. He just let it fill him, let it hold him, accepting it like a hug from Steve, accepting it as a gift.

In a lull, Umkhulu murmured something about needing to get the children home to sleep, and Steve called last song.

“Buck?” he asked, nudging the other man gently. “Any requests?”

Bucky had to clear his throat, before he straightened and glanced at Wanda.

_“Stille Nacht?”_

Her eyes lit up. _“Ja. Natürlich!”_

Sam gave a little groan. “Don’t tell me you all know it in German?”

Steve laughed. “Sing it however you know it.”

Bucky smiled at Sam. “Gabe taught us all the German that last Christmas with the Howlies.” He glanced at Steve, saw the way his eyes lit up. “But I’ll stick to the English. Don’t wanna leave you on your own, even though I can’t really sing.”

Steve reached out to put his arm around Bucky’s neck, pull him in against his side. “Go ahead, Wanda.”

_Stille nacht, heilige nacht,_

_Alles schläft einsam wacht…_

_Silent night, holy night,_

_All is calm, all is bright…_

It didn’t matter what language they sang in, or even how well they kept the tune. They were singing together, even Nat’s lips moving, yes, he could hear her! They might have been sitting among the stars themselves for all the light that shone in that circle of friends.

***

Steve and Bucky were engrossed in the Lord of the Rings, passing the book back and forth as their voices tired, caught up in the adventure. They had finished the first book over Christmas, were now—at New Year’s—on the second, and had just reached the chapter in which Gandalf the wizard returned from the dead.

Sitting in the shade, watching the flock, they took a break at the end of that chapter, discussing the story, and remembering that they had brought a lunch.

“It’s such a big story,” Bucky said suddenly, before popping another chunk of zebra-jerky into his mouth.

“I know. All those different people tangled up in the same final hope: to save their world.”

“Kind of like ours,” Bucky said, not joking.

Steve looked thoughtfully at the book, lying in the grass. “I suppose you’re right.”

“What do you think?” Bucky waved his hand around in a gesture meant to take in the world at large. “Is ours going to have a happy ending?”

“I think that depends on your definition of a happy ending,” Steve answered, with a wry sort of smile.

“Hey,” Bucky said suddenly. He got up to see better, and counted the grazing animals again. “There’s a sheep missing.”

All thoughts of books gone, the two men searched among the animals for several minutes, before they both heard it: the guttural panting of an animal in distress. Without a word they moved swiftly in the direction of the sound, zig-zagging around some scraggly bushes. It was behind one of those bushes that they found her, stretched out flat on her side.

Bucky swore as Steve couched by the ewe’s head.

“It’s Steph!” Steve blurted, and at the sound of their voices the sheep struggled weakly, managing to lift her head.

Bucky cursed again as he knelt by her hindquarters.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, cradling the ewe’s face in his hands.

“Lambing,” Bucky said shortly. “Two weeks early. Front feet are showing, no head.” He gently grasped the thin little legs, sticking out of the mother. “Dry. God knows how long she’s been down.”

“Are you gonna pull the lamb out?” Steve asked quietly.

“Yeah, I just have to find its head first.”

Bucky knelt in the short grass behind Steph. “Hold her down,” he told Steve, even as he focussed in on the job at hand.

He’d spent much of November helping Ntando with his huge flock, quickly learning how a lamb was supposed to be born, as well as the dozens of things that could go wrong.

A lamb was supposed to be born front feet first, with the nose appearing at the same time as the knees. Once the head was out, the big push came from the mother to get the shoulders out, and the rest of the baby would pretty much fall out. But this one’s head was twisted back inside somewhere, and Bucky would have to be the one to fish it out. Something he had only seen Ntando do.

Bucky gulped once, rubbed his palm on his shirt, glanced at it. It would have to do. He didn’t know how long the ewe had been in labor, but she was clearly exhausted and every minute was precious.

Gently, he grasped the little legs and pushed them back into the mother, letting his hand slide in too. It was warm and wet and… _Oh shoot_ , he quickly discovered another problem: there was more than one lamb in there. Way too many legs and bodies and…

“Buck? What is it?”

He blinked back his shock, sucked in a deep breath. “Um, there’s more than one. Lamb. Gotta figure out what head belongs to which.”

“One at a time,” he heard Steve murmur.

His hand felt too big and clumsy, and he closed his eyes, let his fingers do the ‘seeing’. Okay, this was the first one’s head, twisted to one side like he’d thought. He hooked his fingers around the jaw, pulling it into line with the legs.

He was suddenly glad that the legs had already dried off, it made them much easier to grasp with his slimy wet hand. One quick tug and his hand was out, followed by a little pink nose. He paused there for a moment, remembering something Ntando had said: it was always better to work with the contractions if possible.

But Stephanie had almost no push left in her. So in one smooth pull, Bucky dragged that little lamb out into the world.

It lay in the dry grass, covered in slimy mucus, not moving.

“Is it breathing?” Steve asked.

“No. You take it, you’ve got two hands.” With his one, Bucky scooped up the little body and turned to pass it to Steve. “Clean its face off, give him a shake. I gotta get the other one out.”

Crouching down again, he slid his hand back inside the ewe. Oh, thank God. “There’s only one other one.”

“It’s not breathing-!” Steve started, before he added with relief, “Wait, he just kicked.”

“Just… let me concentrate,” Bucky grunted.

Okay, legs, back legs, butt… “Crap.”

“What?”

“Backwards.” Bucky paused, hand still inside the ewe, mind racing. What had Ntando said? _It’s better to just pull them out by the back feet, than try to turn them around. But you have to do it fast, because the umbilical cord will get pinched while the head was still inside, and you don't want the lamb trying to breathe then._

He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes again.

Finger around one hock, pull it up easy, in line with the birth canal. Now the other… there. His hand slipped a few times, but finally he got a good grip on the back feet and pulled hard and smooth, following the natural curve of the lamb’s body in a downward motion almost between Stephanie’s back legs. It slopped out onto the grass, and he caught a quick breath. Hastily he rubbed his palm on his pants to dry it a bit, then gently wiped at the mucus covering its face.

“Is that one okay?” Steve asked, and Bucky waited a minute, until the legs kicked and he heard the tiny sneeze.

“Yeah.”

Bucky shifted, straightened his back, suddenly realizing what an uncomfortable position he’d been crouching in. He stood, stretching, looked down at Steve, whose lamb was shaking its head, already trying to gather its legs under it. Pure white, except for its mother’s black eye.

“Hey, you can let momma up now.”

Steve moved to take his knee off the ewe’s neck.

“She’s pretty tired,” Bucky added. “Let her catch her breath.”

He turned back to bend over the other lamb, which was shaking its head, the wet ears flapping. It had a couple large black spots on its side.

“This one’s a girl,” Steve said.

Bucky rubbed his hand along the spotted ribcage, providing a little more stimulation, before he checked its back legs. “Ram.”

“Nice.”

He could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, and sensed Stephanie starting pull herself together. Bucky scooped up the spotted lamb and moved to lay him beside his sister, close by Steph’s head.

Steve shuffled back, but stayed kneeling, watching as the ewe pulled herself up to rest on her folded front legs, beginning to nose and lick at her babies.

“Anything else?” he asked, glancing up at Bucky.

“Yeah. We should make sure they get the first milk.”

Rather suddenly, Bucky sat down in the grass, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The whole process couldn't have taken more than 10 or 15 minutes, but it felt like hours had passed. Steve plopped down beside him, and Bucky lifted his arm to rub the sweat off his forehead.

He froze, eyes locking in on his red-smeared hand.

_No._

Blood.

Blood.

 _Nonononono_ … what had he done?! What-?

He jerked his head up, searching for something, the bodies of the people he’d killed… _No, please, no, please. Oh, God, no, I can’t take it if I…_

The white ewe heaved herself to her feet, finding her balance before she went back to cleaning off the babies. _Steph_. He saw the blood on her back legs and on the ground… And he saw the lambs, two skinny, still wet little things, already trying to gather their legs under them.

“Buck?”

He blinked, sucked in a deep breath, opened his mouth to answer, but there was something… something swelling in his chest, catching in his throat.

“You alright?” Steve asked softly.

Bucky looked again at his bloodied hand, then at the lambs, and finally at Steve. “I… didn’t hurt them.” He glanced back to see the little ram lamb getting one front and one back leg on the same side to work together, but he was forgetting the other side, and tumbled down again, rolling almost onto his back before he caught himself. He gave a tiny squeak of a bleat. “I didn’t hurt them.”

“You saved them,” Steve said, his voice soft and wondering. “I don’t think I could have done it. At least, not in time. They’re alive because of you.”

Bucky looked at the other man, saw pride and a deep respect in Steve’s eyes.

The idea that blood did not necessarily mean death, but could in fact be the result of life, life that he had helped _save…_

“You’re amazing, pal. You are. Well done, Buck.”

“Shut up,” Bucky said, but the tears in his eyes and the choke in his voice kinda ruined the effect.

Steve chuckled, moved closer to bump his shoulder against Bucky’s. Bucky blinked, caught more tears on the back of his hand, letting them mix with some of the blood that had already dried, until he could wipe his hand clean on the grass. 

“Are you gonna name them?”

Bucky sniffed, cleared his throat. “Sure. Any ideas?”

There was a long silence from the men, except for the odd chuckle as the lambs continued to work at finding their feet.

_“Nazovite devochku ‘Rassvet’, a mal’chika ‘Svoboda’.”_

Bucky blinked, took in what Steve had just said. He had been half afraid Steve might suggest something like... But no. “In English or Russian?” he asked slowly.

“I don’t know.” There was a nervous hint in Steve’s voice. “Just an idea. Whatever makes the kids laugh.”

“Rassvet? Yeah.” Bucky hesitated. “But we should call the ram lamb Odin. After Thor’s dad.” He glanced at Steve, met a startled, but beautifully smiling gaze. “Next boy, we’ll just call him Freedom.”

“Okay,” Steve said softly.

They sat in a comfortable quiet, watching two new lives get their start in the world.

 

 _Beginning, just let that word wash over you_  
_It’s alright now_  
_Love’s healing hands have pulled you through_  
_So get back up and take step one_  
_Leave the darkness_  
_Feel the sun_  
_Cause your story’s far from over_  
_And your journey’s just begun_

 _Tell your heart to beat again_  
_Close your eyes and breathe it in_  
_Let the shadows fall away_  
_Step into the light of grace_  
_Yesterday’s a closing door_  
_You don’t live there anymore_  
_Say goodbye to where you’ve been_  
_And tell your heart to beat again_

_-‘Tell Your Heart to Beat Again’ by Danny Gokey_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German:  
>  _Ja. Natürlich!_ : Yes. Of course!  
> Russan:  
>  _“Nazovite devochku ‘Rassvet’, a mal’chika ‘Svoboda’.”_ : "Name the girl ‘Daybreak’ and the boy ‘Freedom’."
> 
> There is almost nothing that compares to the wonder of helping a lamb be born. Farmers are the most blessed people on the planet. I grew up with sheep and this chapter, more than most, is taken from personal experience. Lambing just started at the farm where I work.  
> Life... is amazing. Even when it's hard.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	21. Every Time You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was actually inspired by Daughtry's song 'Everything But Me' and I would have used it for the title, BUT I've already used two of his songs, and this other song sums it up pretty well too. Go listen to the Daughtry song. It's one of my faves. ^_^  
> (Thanks, girl! :P)
> 
> Set somewhere January/February 2018.

_“Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”_

_Bucky knew they wouldn’t take Steve, after all nothing could fix his frail body, no matter how big his heart beat. At least he_ hoped _they wouldn’t take Steve. Because how many times had Bucky finally caved to that stubborn look, and immediately regretted it? He backed away, shaking his head, at Steve, at himself, at how much he admired the other man, no matter what he actually said... at how much he hated to leave._

_“How can I?” Steve called. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”_

_Bucky stopped, and then he was smiling, shaking his head again, but this time because, by golly if he didn’t love Steve like a brother, and he’d told him that before, but right here right now…_

_“You’re a punk.” He bent to pull Steve into a hug, felt those thin arms across his back, heard the muttered, “Jerk.”_

_“Be careful,” Steve added, seriously._

_Bucky smirked as he pulled away, but he felt the weight of Steve’s concern, layering over his own nervousness and fear. Because he was afraid. Afraid to leave, afraid to step back because... what if this_  was _the last time? God help them all, how many men had already laid down their lives? How could Bucky's odds be any better than theirs? Maybe, just maybe, he would never see Steve again. He swallowed hard as he backed up, then turned to find the girls, waiting patiently for him to join them._

_“Don’t win the war ‘til I get there.”_

_Bucky turned, met Steve’s gaze: sad, worried, stubborn..._  hopeful. _So darn stronger than Bucky could ever hope to be. He prayed only that he would be able to hang onto some of that strength on the battlefield, even without Steve beside him._

_He pulled himself straight, saluted the best and bravest man he’d ever known._

Yes, sir!

***

It was the same every time. Steve’s phone rang and he was leaving.

This time it was Bucky who had trouble letting go.

He couldn’t have told why, even if Steve had asked; it had been a good six weeks, with Christmas and sheep shearing and most of the lambs being born. Nights playing poker in Bucky’s hut (Natasha won the most) and afternoons sparring (Bucky still didn’t trust himself with anyone but Steve, but it was fun to watch him fight Natasha). Quiet days reading with Steve. (They had finished _The Lord of the Rings_ less than a week after New Year’s.) Nights when one of the soldiers couldn’t sleep and they’d all sit up and talk (about everything and nothing).

Steve didn’t say anything, just hugged Bucky for as long as he stood there. Finally Bucky sucked in a hard breath, forced himself to step back. “Promise you’ll come back?” he whispered. There was no one else to hear, the others were already aboard the jet, and the sun had not yet cracked the horizon. But he wanted to be sure Steve was the only one who heard.

Steve smiled. “Stay safe yourself, pal. Don’t go getting eaten by lions or crocodiles or anything.”

For some reason Bucky could barely think of smiling, and his hand closed on a fistful of Steve’s jacket. _“Promise?”_

Steve’s face softened, and he kept one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, while he cupped the other alongside Bucky’s face, for a moment. “Yeah.”

Clear blue eyes met stormy blue ones, and then Steve was moving away, taking the ramp into the jet in a single stride. He turned, as the Quin began to lift off, drew himself up straight, brought his right hand up in a sharp salute, every inch a captain.

Bucky could also not have explained why there were tears in his eyes, as he snapped to attention, and returned the gesture.

He knew only that the big blonde man, with the same smile and eyes as a skinny kid from 1920’s Brooklyn, carried with him an essential part of Bucky Barnes.

Bucky knew who he was, he knew that the heart beating in his chest had only been broken, not silenced. Bucky had never died, only been buried, for a time, until Steve’s voice, the echo of his oldest childhood memories, had reached him.

He had done his best, he had survived trying to fit his new life back together himself, but ultimately, Steve was the one who made it all fit _right_.

Steve was Bucky’s rock, his anchor in the middle of everything life had thrown at him. And Bucky didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to his brother. Of course he remembered what he’d done the last time someone had told him Steve wasn’t coming back… and he didn’t want to think about it.

There was no way around the fact that he needed Steve, as stupid as he sometimes felt to attach that much importance to a fragile human being. Except Steve wasn’t fragile, not like he had been. And Bucky’s greatest comfort was another simple fact: Steve needed him too.

Bucky watched ‘til the Quinjet became a speck in the sky, before vanishing altogether. He stood for a while in the hush of the open savannah, alone.

***

_Steve had learned quickly how to deal with his enhanced hearing, most importantly how to sleep with it. But he could never have missed Bucky’s cry, even back in their apartment in Brooklyn before the war, before… all this._

_He was sitting up in his own bed, swinging his pajama-clad legs out from under the covers as Bucky cried out again. There were no words, just a sound that hit Steve like a punch to the gut. Because it was the sound of pure pain._

_He crossed the narrow London hotel room in one stride, and switched on the lamp. Bucky was lying on his side, curled up, shivering. No wonder, most of his blankets had somehow gotten pitched to the floor._

_“Bucky,” Steve called gently, just above a whisper._

_This time Bucky whimpered. And that was somehow worse._

_“Bucky,” he said, a little louder._

_Bucky’s face puckered, a look of pain and… fear? Steve always remembered Bucky moving a lot in his sleep and especially when he dreamed. But there was something dark, darker than anything Steve could recall, haunting his brother now._

_“No,” Bucky mumbled. “Not that. Please.”_

_Now Steve was getting desperate, and he reached to grip Bucky’s shoulder, not hard, but just enough to be felt. “Bucky, wake up, it’s okay. Please.”_

_Bucky jerked, his hand flying up to grab Steve’s arm tightly so that it actually hurt. “No!” he croaked, his eyes opening, staring wildly at Steve. “Don’t… touch him!”_

_His voice died away, and Steve was looking at Bucky, his Bucky, right there with him, and suddenly Steve’s throat hurt with an enormous lump._

_“Steve?” Bucky whispered._

_“Yeah. It’s okay. You’re in London, Buck. You’re with me. It’s okay.”_

_Bucky’s eyes slid away from Steve’s, swept the room, and came back. The breath left his lungs in a harsh sigh, and he sank back on the pillow, his hand sliding down to grip Steve’s wrist, holding the other man’s palm against his chest. Steve could feel Bucky’s racing heartbeat underneath his nightshirt, and bit his lip hard before he spoke again. Somehow it hurt to see how much Bucky needed him._

_“Come on, you’re getting chilled. Move over.”_

_Plenty of times when Steve had been sick and chilled, Bucky had slept beside him, his warmth and strength a comfort. Well, maybe it was time for Steve to return some of that comfort. Grabbing the blankets off the floor with his free hand, Steve waited for Bucky to slide over on the bed, then added, “You know I’m a little bigger than I used to be.”_

_Bucky frowned at him, and Steve rolled his eyes, before he sat down on the edge of the mattress, swung his legs up, and lay down, shoving Bucky right up against the wall._

_There was some muted swearing from Bucky as he dropped Steve’s hand and gave a little shove back, while they got the covers straightened out, and Steve reached over to turn the bedside lamp off._

_To Steve’s surprise, Bucky did not turn his back as might be expected, instead rolling onto his right side, facing Steve, their faces not more than a foot apart._

_Bucky’s eyes… There was enough light coming in from the window for Steve to see them. They were the same and yet not. Something dark, something haunted, lurked behind the grey-blue, reddened from strain and some fear that Steve didn’t even want to guess at. Bucky's right hand came up to grip the edge of the blankets, pulling them up over his shoulder. His left hand pressed against Steve's chest._

_“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, and Steve blinked in surprise, before a laugh bubbled up and spilled out in a sob._

_“Buckyyyyy.”_

_He reached out, pulled Bucky close, and he could feel the thinness of the other man’s ribs through his shirt, but at the same time the strength in his grip as he responded in kind._

_There were things that were easier in the dark, and crying was one of them. It was quiet and wordless, the first real chance either of them had had to take in the reality of the other’s presence, right when it was so desperately needed._

_It helped, took the heaviness out of the air, like a summer shower._

_When the tears had stopped, Bucky rested his head against Steve chest, sniffed, sighed. “I missed you,” he whispered. “Ya idiot punk,” he added hastily._

_“Yeah,” Steve said softly, pulled Bucky a little closer. “I missed you too.”_

_“Specially when you thought I was dead, huh?”_

_Steve’s grip tightened, making Bucky grunt and mumble a hasty, “Sorry.”_

_“I don’t… I don’t know if I really believed it or not. I don’t think I did.”_

_“Good. You know you can’t get rid of me that easy.” Still with Steve’s arm draped over him, and no longer shivering, Bucky turned onto his back. His breathing was slow now, under Steve’s hand, and Steve could feel him drifting back toward sleep._

_“Til the end of the line,” he mumbled, the words slurring together._

_Steve pressed his face against Bucky’s shoulder, let his whole body go limp. “Yeah.”_

_When he closed his eyes, he realized something, in a vague, dreamy way. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to live without Bucky. Bucky… was everything he had left. Bucky was his brother, the one who stuck by him when so many wouldn’t. Bucky had seen him at his very lowest, and still not left._

_And Bucky was right here beside him._

_It was the most peaceful sleep either of them had had since June._

***

Rain pattered against the glass, and Steve sank down on the edge of the bed, let his hands rest on his knees, watched the drops shimmer between the glow of the streetlamps outside, and the light from inside the hotel room.

He listened to the shower running, Sam now taking his turn at getting cleaned up from the day’s efforts, and realized he was hungry. There was a restaurant attached to the hotel; he hoped the food was good and they would be able to eat undisturbed.

Staring aimlessly out the window into the darkness, Steve became aware of what was bothering him.

He missed Bucky. 

He missed him to a sudden depth that surprised him. It should be the three of them, he and Bucky and Sam, getting cleaned up, laughing and talking about the mission, discussing what they should eat. Bucky teasing, Sam ribbing him back, Steve laughing at them both, all in the knowledge that they had done their best to help those who needed it. Even when it meant getting dirty or tired or beat up.

But there was no guarantee when, if ever, Bucky would be ready for something like that. Sometimes, only sometimes when Steve actually thought it, which wasn't often, sometimes that hurt, just a little. It felt like something was missing, even when he felt more whole than he had in years. 

He shifted, thinking he’d lie down until Sam was finished, when his sharp ears caught a rustle. _Must be more tired than I thought_ , he mused, as he stood up to pull a folded paper out of his back pocket.

Something about the sight of that slightly crumpled, lined piece of paper, made Steve finally relax, the tension of always being prepared for anything draining away. He lay on top of the blankets, leaning back against the pillows and discovering that this mattress was pretty comfortable (so far 4-ot-of-5 for this hotel), and unfolded Bucky’s note.

_Remember how your mom used to slip notes into your clothes when you would come with us to the cottage in Maine? Remember when Old Man Fowler’s dog chased us through the woods for what must have been a mile and you had an asthma attack and I thought you were gonna die? Remember when I told you ‘I’m with you to the end of the line’? Well, I’m reminding you, just in case you ever forget. I’m reminding you that you are an idiot punk, who tried to enlist in the US Army **5** times, even resorting to lying on the forms. I’m reminding you that nobody ate more pancakes at that French farmer’s house than you. I’m reminding you that I’m here. I ain’t dead. Cause you stopped at nothing to give me life. I know you wish some things had turned out differently, but this is where we are now. We can’t change any of that. All we can do is our best with each new day we get. Stay true, okay? Stick with your conscience. Remember what Aunt Sarah always told you. And—if it helps anyway—go ahead and remember me. Cause I ain’t never forgetting you. _

_P.S. Call Sharon and set up a Valentine’s Day date or I will do it for you.That’s what happens when you trust your friends with your phone…_

He finished with a rough drawing of a smiley face sticking its tongue out.

Steve had to wonder: what had he done to deserve a friend like Bucky? A _brother_ like him?

Even in the face of everything that had been done to him, and everything he'd done, he was still so ready, so willing to give Steve the care he needed. Even when Steve himself forgot he needed it. In one note Bucky had managed to give Steve everything that only he could give. And all Steve could do was gladly receive it.

Nights like this, he couldn't believe how he'd lived without that for those four years. It had been a year now, since Bucky came out of cryo and the healing he'd struggled to find on his own had begun in earnest. A year of Bucky's voice on the other end of the phone line, of Bucky's scribbled notes, of Bucky getting mad at him, laughing with him, crying with him, smiling at him.

Steve had Bucky back. He could believe it, he could hold onto that. Now he could look ahead to a lifetime with it, with his best friend, whether they were on the same continent or not. No matter how uncertain and rocky the future might be, Bucky was watching his back, and that was all he needed to know.

“Hey, Cap. You hungry?” Sam came out of the bathroom, shaving kit in hand, and paused. “You okay?”

Steve brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and had to clear his throat, before he looked up, knowing he was smiling. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get something to eat.” As Sam smiled back, he added, "My treat."

Now Sam grinned. "Now you're talkin'!"

***

“Steve?”

“Hey, Buck. How’ve you been?”

“Better if you didn’t call me in the middle of the night.”

A chuckle. “Time zones are kinda… irrelevant these days.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just… wishing I was somewhere else, I guess.”

“Hmm, let me guess: where do they have your neighbor stationed these days?”

Another laugh, but wistful this time. “I wish we were _all_ there.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

 

 _Every time you go_  
_You take a part of me_  
_A part of me with you_  
_Every time you go_  
_I feel it in my soul_

_…_

_Oh, I’m there with you in your heart_  
_No matter how far apart we are_  
_You’re with me_  
_Everywhere you go_

_-‘Every Time You Go’ by 3 Doors Down_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _loved_ writing this. Did it in a day too!
> 
> Hope you liked it :)


	22. You Are the Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one ran away with me too! Ugh, how can I _ever_ stop writing about these guys who LIVE the meaning of friendship, brotherhood, love?!?!?!  
>  So, some descriptions of injury/illness (just in case anyone get queasy reading about that) and the ending is pretty emotional. I actually cried all over this chapter. ;A; Just because they are so amazing and I wish I could be as good a friend as they are.
> 
> Approx. first week of March 2018

_Bucky didn’t want to die. He dangled over nothing, clinging to a metal bar on the torn side of the railcar, terrified in a way he’d never been before. He looked into Steve’s eyes, heard him call, saw the hand stretched out, ready to save him. The wind buffeted him and the railway car shook. He was afraid to let go, but he could feel the metal already weakening. He shifted his grip, felt the metal begin to give way, let go with one hand and lunged for Steve’s hand. He missed._

_He fell and the world went black._

_He didn’t die._

_Steve was dead._

_Bucky’s mind reeled, far beyond the results of any of their physical tortures. He staggered between the guards and they slapped his face. They threw him to the floor of his cell, they kicked him and it hurt. But that was not the reason for the tears in his eyes._

_The door clanged shut, the keys jangled in the lock. “Your Captain is dead,_ Soldat,” _one monster sneered down at him. “There is no one left to save you, no one to find you. He is dead and you are ours.”_

_“No,” he choked out, “No!” He dragged himself upright on sheer willpower alone, standing to face them, though he wavered like a sapling in a gale. “Steve…” His words failed as a newspaper was hurled through the bars. It landed on the floor so he could see the headline, the same as the one on the news reels they had just shown him: Captain America Dies A Hero. Steve’s eyes stared up at him in black-and-white, until they blurred and Bucky blinked._

_Bucky broke. He crumpled to the floor, doubling over as the horrible realization hit him. That wasn’t Captain America, those were Steve’s eyes. And Steve was dead._

_He wept until his throat was raw and his stomach hurt. He wept until the guards came in and beat him. He wept until the pain seemed to tear him apart, and the world faded._

_Bucky did not care if he lived or died._

_Everyone died._

_Except him._

_The Soldier didn’t want to die._

_Everything around him was falling apart, there was fire and crashing, and something fell on him. He was pinned, a heavy beam crushing him, it was hard to breathe._

_He was afraid, he was hurt, he was struggling. He knew the helicarrier was going down, and he was going down with it._

_The man was there, moving towards him, and he thought he had killed the man, killed the Captain, that was his mission but, no, he had bloodstains on his uniform, and he was staggering toward… him._

_The terror doubled. He had fought the Captain and the Captain had fought back. He had shot the Captain and now, perhaps the Captain would shoot back. If anyone could kill him, it was the Captain._

_The Captain lifted the beam off his chest. The Soldier crawled out from under it._

_His arm hurt, his chest hurt, everything hurt. And he had not finished the mission because the Captain was standing there, staring at him. His eyes, his eyes. It made the Soldier’s head hurt. Why did it hurt? He had never hurt this way before._

_They would hurt him even more if he did not complete the mission._

_He fought the Captain. The Captain did not fight back._

_He spoke to the Soldier, he said things the Soldier could hear, but not understand. The Captain told him he had a name. The words made his head hurt, the name made his chest hurt._

_They would take the pain away if he finished his mission._

_The Captain would die._

_He was dying under the Soldier’s hands. His face was beaten and bruised and all it would take was one more blow. He would finish his mission_

_The Captain’s face blurred, his eyes, the blood, the bruises, his eyes. A skinny kid. The Soldier hesitated._

_The Captain spoke and the words seemed to echo through the Soldier, but there was another voice saying it. His own voice._

“I’m with you to the end of the line.”

_The Soldier froze._

_He stared and stared and stared and something was rising up inside him, something strong and sure and then the whole world seemed to snap into focus, the fog and fire and chaos of his mind gone. Replaced by one thought, one word._

Steve?

_Boy, man, fighting, laughing, Steve, you’re an idiot, Shut up, Bucky! I’m with you to the end of the line. Steve cried. Bucky pulled him close, wrapped him in hug, trying to protect him, protect him._

Steve.

_In the span of a heartbeat, he saw a lifetime. And the word rose in his throat, demanding to be spoken. No, not a word. A name._

Steve.

_A crash, he tumbled, he caught a hold of a metal beam, saving himself from falling._

_Steve fell._

_He watched Steve fall in a moment, in a lifetime, and he was the one falling and Steve was reaching for him._

“Bucky!”

_He dangled over the river, from the falling wreckage of the helicarrier, another explosion rocking him, and Steve was falling, out of Bucky’s reach._

Steve!

_He let go and fell._

_He didn’t want Steve to die._

_……_

Slowly, Bucky opened his eyes, squinting through the tears.

“Bucky?” The little voice was barely above a whisper, and he glanced down at the dark-skinned boy who had pressed against his side, the sensation that had drawn him back to the present.

“K-Khwezi?”

The child looked back at him, eyes big with worry and concern, but not the least hint of fear. “Do you want me to go away?”

The words were so soft, so gentle and childlike, that anything Bucky might have said would never have made it past the lump in his throat. He shook his head, fresh tears welling his eyes. Aw, no, he didn’t want to break down in front of the boy…

“Do you want a hug?”

The dam broke, and Bucky scooped Khwezi into his lap, pulled him close, needing desperately to hang onto someone, and the little boy leaned right in. He wrapped his arms as far around Bucky’s middle as he could reach, and Bucky cried.

He cried… for everything. For Steve, watching him fall, for the life he lost himself. For the days of believing Steve was dead. For the days of torture and the days of death. For the time (times) he had (the Winter Soldier had) come so close to killing Steve.

He cried for the sheer depth of love it took for Steve to be willing to die for him.

Bucky pressed his face into the top of Khwezi’s head, and let himself weep for it all.

After a while the sobs lessened, then faded to deep, shuddering breaths. His face was all wet, and his nose running, so he reached across to grab a corner of the scarf tied over his left shoulder and mop his face. The tears stopped and he started to catch his breath, finally taking a deep, full breath, and letting it out in a sigh.

He felt Khwezi shifting in his lap and he loosened his grip, letting the little boy find a more comfortable position, sitting sideways in Bucky’s lap, one arm still wrapped around Bucky’s middle.

Bucky rested his chin on the boy’s hair, and closed his eyes. He breathed, taking in the warm air around him, the lambs bleating in the distance, and Khwezi’s little hand rubbing over his beard, patting his cheeks.

A few more involuntary tears sprang to his eyes and spilled over, and he bowed his head to let the little boy catch them.

_“Umkhulu uthi ‘Iinyembezi yimvula eyenza intliziyo yakho ikhule.’ Ngoku ungakhula iintyatyambo ezininzi entliziyweni yakho.”_

Oh, shoot, he’d thought he was cried out. “You know,” he choked out, “flowers need sunshine too. That… would be you.”

Khwezi was now using the scarf on Bucky’s shoulder, but paused in his ministrations to frown. “But I’m not the sun. My name means ‘star’. The stars watch the flowers at night when they’re all closed up. In the morning the sun makes them open and grow.”

Bucky sniffled, felt a watery smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Well, the sun is a star too.”

 _“Ewe,_ but I’m _nkwenkwezi e ncinane._ The sun is a _big_ one.” Then his face lit up in a smile. “Steve! He is the sun. _Ewe? Ewe.”_

Bucky was laughing, and Khwezi’s whole face lit up at the sound, and the tears mixed with the laughter, and the ache that was the knowledge of Steve’s love for him mixed with the overflowing love Bucky felt in response. He would have given the moon and stars to be able to hug Steve at that moment, but Khwezi was the one taking care of him right now. So he wrapped his arm around the little boy and squeezed him breathless.

***

Bucky was alone that evening, eating supper, and flipping through Steve’s sketchbook, the one Steve had filled back at his birthday. The one Bucky still reached for in the middle of the night, when he needed the reminder, though those nights had become less and less frequent as one day ran into the next and the seasons changed and the crops grew and the peace of this place seeped into his soul.

There was a picture of Skinny’s Pub from the old days in Brooklyn, and the church the Rogers and Barneses had gone to, which Bucky had seen in person a few years ago. If Steve was here, he’d be able to spill some story about finding the same spot in the pew where Bucky had released his pet grasshopper and it landed on an old lady’s shoulder or something.

The next page had Shuri and Buck bent over a table in the lab, heads close together as she pointed out and explained how something worked. And there was T’Challa, in a suit looking all Oxford, except that he was laughing, full out, in a way Bucky was pretty sure he’d only seen once.

The past and the present, overlaid like the lines of the sketches themselves.

He didn’t let himself linger on that thought, just kept flipping. Bucky and Sheila, a cat (what was her name again? Patchwork) with her kittens, and… whoa. How could someone capture fireworks in greyscale and make them look so beautiful? Bucky could almost taste the salt breeze off the ocean, hear the oohs and ahhs of the crowd, smell the hotdogs from the vendors, hear the rockets exploding above his head, the little girls squealing… He winced, tried to shove aside the other memories of explosions and fire.

With a little sigh, he turned the page, and froze, his breath suddenly gone. He had not seen this one yet. He knew what it was, knew that Steve had seen and remembered… Bucky’s metal hand extended through the murky water, reaching, reaching… The picture itself was shadowy and dark, except for the perfectly captured gleam of light on the metal.

Scribbled beneath it: _Seems like hope and light are the same thing most of the time._

HYDRA’s weapon, reaching out to save the person it had been made to kill.

Two dark dots had appeared on the page, by the time Bucky realized he was crying. Again. He groaned and pushed the sketchbook away, rubbing his hand over his face. What was wrong with him today? Was it just missing Steve or was there something else making him feel raw and vulnerable?

It had been a week since he last heard from Steve. Not unusual. He was really hoping Steve would come back for his birthday next week. Last year… last year it had fallen in the middle of a rough time, and though they’d had some good moments, the shadows had been far too thick to really enjoy or celebrate the day. This time Bucky was hoping for something sweeter, maybe even something as beautiful as Steve’s birthday had been.

Still deep in thought, Bucky gathered up the sketchbook, and stepped inside to lay it on the table, before going about the business of washing up. One bowl, one spoon, one frying pan.

He paused, cocking his head, catching the sound of voices and children’s laughter drifting from other huts. His goats bleating, a low ‘moo’ from his milk cow Daisy, a recent addition. The chirp of crickets and other evening insects.

Even in the middle of all that life he felt lonely, and sometimes, a little bit tired. Of course Khwezi did things for him that Steve couldn’t, but Steve did things for him that no one else could, and—no matter how much he might not deserve it—he wished he could have both. There was simply no replacement for Steve, just as there was no replacement for the sun in the sky.

He closed his eyes, listened to a bird singing, and a low hum like… His eyes flew open and he was on his feet, staring into the evening sky.

The Quinjet came in low, passing the village much closer than normal. Without even thinking, Bucky tossed down the cloth he’d been drying his dishes with, and bolted.

As fast as he could run, the Quin was landed and the bay door coming down when he arrived. He jogged to the bottom of the ramp, and halted to catch his breath, suddenly unsure. Until he caught the sound of Steve’s voice. There was no particular emotion running through him, only the definite knowledge that he needed his brother now.

The metal felt strange under his bare feet, and in the shadowed body of the ship he just had time to take in Steve moving toward him, his face startlingly white, before Bucky realized that Steve was actually _falling_ towards him.

The world didn’t blur, if anything it sharpened, but everything was moving, faster than his heart could hammer out the beats. He caught Steve, caught his right hand, stepping forward and spinning to duck under his friend’s arm and take his full weight. Sam was on Steve’s other side, cursing at the captain through his teeth, as he braced himself to let Steve sink to the floor.

Steve caught himself, setting his feet apart to find his balance, and lifting his head.

“It’s okay, Buck.” His voice wavered, and Bucky noticed how shallowly he was breathing. “I’m fine.” He tried to shrug off the supporting hands and staggered again.

“You are _not_ fine! You are most _certainly_ not fine!” Sam’s voice was taut with worry, anger, and guilt.

“Let’s get him outside,” Bucky said.

They were out in the warm evening air when Steve choked, gagged… and then he was down on his knees puking in the grass. Bucky’s own stomach was churning, not at the sight or smell of vomit, but with shock and a strong dose of worry and even fear.

He knelt beside Steve, suddenly conscious of the fact that he only had one arm, and would not be able to support Steve the way he remembered. He had no time to wallow in that thought, though. He reached to brace his arm across Steve’s shoulders, then hooked his arm around Steve’s neck, supporting him with his forearm and hand across the other man’s chest.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I’ve got you.”

Steve tried to take in a breath to answer, but he doubled over again. He was sick a third and a fourth time and Sam vanished back into the jet, no doubt looking for some medical solution.

Steve’s big body _still_ sometimes surprised Bucky, even after– ugh, he didn’t have time for math—all these years. The powerful heart, racing against the palm of Bucky’s hand; the width of the shoulders, shaking with the effort of expelling whatever his body had deemed dangerous.

There was a lull in the vomiting, and Bucky finally blurted out the question racing circles in his head. “What _happened,_ Steve?”

Steve slumped away from Bucky, into the arm holding him up, trembling. He turned his head to look at Bucky, bringing up one faltering hand to swipe across his mouth.

Bucky’s brain took an extra couple heartbeats to connect the dots from the blood on the back of Steve’s hand, to the red flecks in his beard. But there was no denying it when Steve’s stomach heaved again, and he was _vomiting blood_ , and _Dear God, no!_

“Sam!” Bucky was yelling over his shoulder. _“Sam!”_

***

Steve became aware of something being taken off his forehead, the brush of air on damp skin, and then the feel of a big, work-worn palm pressing lightly there, before fingers gently pushed his hair back. There was a sound of water dripping, before a cool cloth was laid on his brow.

“Mmph, B’k?” he slurred, cracking his eyes open. Soft, warm light, he was covered by a sheet pulled up to his shoulders. He was actually quite comfortable and he was wearing clean pants; he couldn't remember the last time he'd worn something other than his uniform...

“Hey.”

Steve turned his head, to see Bucky sitting on his left in a chair by the bed, watching him with… too many layers of emotion in his eyes.

There was only one answer Steve had for that look, and he reached out his hand. Bucky’s seemed to move on its own, shooting out to grasp Steve’s so tight it hurt.

There was a silence, broken only by their breathing, Bucky’s a little faster than normal. Wait, there was someone else in the room. Steve’s gaze found Sam passed out on a small cot in the corner.

He felt Bucky shifting and turned his eyes back to his best friend. Bucky propped his elbow on his knee and lifted their clasped hands, so he could rest his forehead against them. His face was partly hidden now.

Steve swallowed hard, which worked, even though he felt like he hadn’t done it in a while. He could feel Bucky’s pulse in his temple, pressed against the back of Steve’s hand.

“What happened?”

“You got sick.” Bucky voice was low, and Steve’s heart hurt even more because he wasn’t even pretending to scold his punk of a little brother for getting hurt in some stupid fight again… “You got hit twice in the side. Not normal bullets. They had some kind of poison in or on them, maybe both, Shuri’s still looking into that. Slow acting stuff. It would have killed anyone else a matter of minutes after the symptoms finally showed up. That was last night. Got the internal bleeding stopped and she gave you something to combat the nausea and stuff. Your body’s been taking care of the rest.”

A perfect report, all the right details… ‘She’ had to be Shuri.

“Where are we?”

“Princess Shuri’s lab. Once the worst was over, she had you moved in here. The only normal bed in the place.”

Steve smiled. “I thought I recognized it.” After they’d taken Bucky out of cryo, Steve had sat in this room, in that very chair, waiting for him to wake up. He gave a little sigh and squeezed Bucky’s hand lightly, wishing he would look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said softly.

Now Bucky lifted his head, met Steve’s gaze through the dark strands of hair half-covering his face. “Why should you be sorry?”

“For scaring you.” He headed off the next thought he could see burning in the other man’s eyes. “I didn’t tell Sam about anything because I thought I just got nicked. I’m sorry.”

Bucky dropped his chin again, staring at the floor. “You stupid _punk,”_ he whispered, and there was anger behind the words now. But at Steve or himself or just the world in general, Steve couldn’t be sure. He contemplated pulling his hand away, decided against it, and sat up slowly. The room didn’t spin or anything, but pain stabbed into his stomach. Okay, that was manageable.

It was Bucky who let go then, and Steve grabbed the damp cloth from where it had fallen, tossing it into the basin on the table at Buck’s elbow. He shifted himself backwards to sit up against the head of the bed, and when he stopped he had to concentrate for a few seconds while the pain died down. He realized suddenly that he was thirsty, and turned to Buck, prepared to ask, but the words died on his lips.

Bucky was staring with something like horrified fascination, but not at Steve's face, and Steve followed his gaze down to his abdomen. Steve was shirtless, the blanket had slipped down to his waist, and now he saw the neat white bandage on the left side of his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. It hurt like the devil, but it didn’t look terrible. What was Bucky–?

“Where did you get that scar?”

Steve blinked at Bucky, glanced down at himself again, then back at Bucky, who was hunched over a bit, his hand unconsciously pressed against his midriff.

Oh…

It was more of a dent than anything, the skin knotted over it, about three or four inches below his sternum. Steve had six scars that he knew of: three from fights in World War II, and three he had earned in a single day four years ago, all bullet wounds. But that one, the one that Bucky could not now take his eyes off of, was the most obvious.

 _Oh, Buck._ Steve’s voice was soft and steady when he spoke: “Wherever I got it, it was worth it.”

Now Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve’s, and Steve read it all: pain, grief, remorse, shame, longing. Longing to believe Steve’s words, longing to see the triumph of all the courage and love and hope that Steve could always find behind the darkness in his friend’s eyes.

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Bucky whispered. “All I do is keep hurting you.”

Steve opened his mouth, but the words kept coming like a tap turned on, as if all these thoughts had been building up in Bucky the whole night he sat at Steve’s side and watched over him.

“I nearly killed you that day. You were my mission and I had to see it through. I had to, I couldn’t not, it was, what they would do to me if I…” Bucky’s face twisted and he turned away. “And I was killing you and you looked at me, and you… I can’t even…” The words died in a sound somewhere between a groan and a cry, as he covered his face with his hand.

There was a long moment of silence.

“You’re wrong, you know," Steve said quietly. "The Winter Soldier was trying to kill me. You saved my life.” Steve kept his eyes on Bucky’s face, or what little he could see, just in case the other man looked up. “Knowing what I do, how I could even hate the Soldier for what he did? I can’t. But it was Bucky who hauled his knucklehead, punk friend out of the Potomac, instead of letting him drown. You two look a lot alike, of course, and Bucky’s a heck of a better fighter than he used to be, but I know the difference. You look at me and you smile. You fought for me in Siberia..."

Bucky was suddenly standing, eyes ablaze, behind the gloss of tears. “And if you hadn’t dropped that stupid shield for my s– my sake,” he finished with some difficulty, “you wouldn’t be here like... this.” His gesture took in Steve's current state, and even as he shifted again on the bed, Steve felt another sharp wave of pain.

But he met Bucky’s gaze squarely, and then discovered he was sort of smiling. “Actually you’re right this time. And there’s nowhere I would rather be.” Because it was true. So, _so_ true.

***

Bucky felt his heart crack open in his chest.

How many times had Steve told him that? How many times had he insisted that Bucky was worth it? How many times had he shown and told and _lived_ his love for the man he called his friend? And how many times would he have to face Bucky’s fears until he stopped, until he left?

Bucky couldn’t bear those eyes, cutting down his walls, breaking the chains he’d somehow never quite been able to take off. He turned abruptly, stumbling against the chair, blinded by the tears that had been building in him since Steve showed up, never mind since he collapsed in Bucky’s arms.

When? When would he ever stop being afraid? Afraid of betrayal (his and others’), afraid of pain (his and causing others’), afraid of losing the deep and wonderful happiness he had now, which once had been lost deeper than Atlantis? Afraid of losing Steve?

When would he ever be as brave as Steve?

His hand was on the door, when he heard Steve gasp behind him. “Buck!” he managed to call. “Wait.”

Bucky stood frozen, hearing Sam’s voice suddenly, “Are you crazy, Cap? Sit down before you fall down. I’ve had to catch you before and believe me you are no featherweight.” _Shoot._ He’d forgotten Sam was even in the room. What did the other man think of him now?

Bucky couldn’t think straight. All the sadness and loneliness he’d been carrying around the last few days had been overtaken by the fear of seeing Steve so gravely injured, and in a way that Bucky was mostly helpless to fix. He was so tired that he knew he would break down if he stayed here a minute longer.

But he’d already stayed too long.

“Bucky, please, I can’t exactly run after you right now.”

With a groan, Bucky leaned forward to rest his head against the smooth polished wood of the door. Behind him he heard the shuffle of two pairs of feet, Steve’s bare ones and Sam’s socked feet. Then Steve’s hand was on his shoulder, and Steve’s voice wrapped around him pulling him away from the chaos of his own mind.

“Bucky, please, just– Look at me?”

He turned, but keeping his head down. Sam’s feet stepped away, leaving just Steve in front of him, and both of Steve’s big hands on Bucky’s shoulders. They stood like that for a moment, until Steve sighed. Bucky felt those warm strong hands on either side of his face, holding him together, even as they gently nudged him to look up.

Finally he did.

Steve’s eyes were strong and bright and seemed to shine on a level with the sun, between the tears and the fire that told Bucky almost everything at a glance. His face was pinched with the physical pain his effort was causing him, but the words came slow and measured. “That day on the Helicarrier was my choice. Just like it was yours when you followed me and saved my life that day on the train. You never had to, but you told me that I was worth it. Well, these scars? They’re worth it. You’re worth it all. Trust me, you’re worth  _more."_ A deep breath.

Already Bucky could feel a few tears slipping down his cheeks (darn it), because of  _course_ he was worth it, Steve was worth everything Bucky had ever done for him a thousand times over...

“We can’t change the past, only how we see it. And all I see is you. I see the strongest, bravest, most courageous man I’ve ever known. A man who protected me no matter what it cost him. A man who said he’d be with me to the end of the line.” Steve’s voice cracked on the last syllable, and his lips quivered. “And I hope… I hope you can see that too, because… the truth is… you are the reason I’m alive.”

Bucky barely heard the last words, as he collapsed into Steve’s arms, weeping for the second time in as many days, and in that moment he could grasp only one fact: that nothing Bucky could ever say or do would drive Steve away. Not because Steve needed him. Because Steve loved him. As much as Bucky loved Steve. 

 _And_ you _are the reason_ I’m _alive._ There was no way he could have gotten the words out, so he didn’t even try. He just clung to Steve, trying to pour all that love out through his arm, his hand and into his friend. The greatest friend he could ever have. He felt the other man’s arms wrap around him, and he knew he was completely and perfectly safe, even as he was completely and perfectly  _seen._

At some point Sam had to remind them of Steve’s unsteadiness on his feet and his still healing body, but the other soldier didn’t try to make them step away from each other, just guided them both back to the bed so they could sit down. They ended up both sitting lengthways on the bed, propped up on a few more pillows Sam supplied them with, along with a glass of water for Steve.

Bucky pressed himself against Steve’s uninjured side, the tears still falling, but he wasn’t ashamed of them.

“How about you do the crying for both of us?” Steve muttered, leaning back into Bucky and closing his eyes against the pain.

“You… always make me do everything,” Bucky hiccupped, feeling an unexpected smile tug at his lips.

“You guys,” Sam sighed, stretching back out on the cot, “are just something else.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Steve mumbled.

Sam snorted, and Bucky rubbed the tears out of his eyes again, so he could see the other man better. “Nah. Actually, you guys give me a pretty good reason to keep going too.”

“Aww, I’m touched.” Bucky managed to put some teasing in his voice and Sam grinned.

But Steve cut them off. “We try anyway.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but if we’re done talking, I don’t care what time it is. I’m getting some more shut eye.”

Bucky wiped his eyes again, sniffed and reached to pull up the light blanket to cover his best friend a little more. Then he settled in against Steve, the warmth dragging him down toward sleep.

“So, do you believe me?” Steve’s voice was barely audible.

Bucky took a deep breath, let it out in an equally deep sigh. “Yeah.” Suddenly the words came. “You’re the reason I’m alive too, you know.”

A short silence. Then: "You'd do the same for me."

Bucky smiled, closed his eyes. "Sure thing, punk."

"Thanks, jerk."

He heard the regular throb of Steve's heart, that big strong heart, so unlike what it had been. But hadn't Steve's heart always been strong and big? Bucky's thoughts were drifting, he was definitely tired. 

"Just don't scare me like that again, okay?" Even as he said it, Bucky knew the truth, knew what a dangerous life his brother lead, but he wanted to ignore that, wanted something... to hold onto.

"'Kay..." Steve's voice faded away, and he was quite firmly asleep.

Bucky let everything slip away, except for the beat of Steve’s heart and Sam’s deep breathing. He slept.

 

 _There goes my heart beating_  
_…_

 _And you are the reason_  
_That I’m still breathing_  
_…_

 _I'd climb every mountain_  
_And swim every ocean_  
_Just to be with you_  
_And fix what I've broken_  
_Cause I need you to see_  
_That you are the reason_  
_..._

 _Come back I need you to hold_  
_Me a little closer now_  
_Just a little closer now_  
_Come a little closer_  
_I need you to hold me tonight_  
_…_

 _Cause I need you to see_  
_That you are the reason_

_-‘You Are the Reason’ by Calum Scott_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan:  
>  _“Umkhulu uthi ‘Iinyembezi yimvula eyenza intliziyo yakho ikhule.’ Ngoku ungakhula iintyatyambo ezininzi entliziyweni yakho.” :_ “Umkhulu says, ‘Tears are the rain that makes your heart grow.’ Now you can grow lots of flowers in your heart.”  
>  _nkwenkwezi e ncinane:_ a little star
> 
> Also the Winter Soldier actually shot Steve four times, but one of them wasn't as serious so I decided that it didn't scar. 
> 
> Hope you don't mind these guys crying so much, I just got really emotional about how much they are willing to give up for each other and also it's Easter, so I'll leave you with this for now: _"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." - Jesus_


	23. Good To Be Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama aplenty here! Action is definitely not something I excel at describing, but I did my best. Hope it's not too much, or too little. I also hope this isn't too messy, since I am almost at the end of this baby and trying to make sure everybody says everything I want them to say.
> 
> Some action and violence.

Bucky did his best not to hover, but for the next day or so he had a hard time letting Steve out of his sight for more than five minutes. It was easy since they went everywhere together anyway, but still…

They were back at the farm by that afternoon, and he was standing, watching Steve play with Rassvet and Odin, when Sam startled him.

“You okay?”

Bucky turned to face his friend, but not so far that he couldn’t still see Steve.

“Not exactly the homecoming you were expecting,” he added, his dark eyes watching Bucky with that sharp kindness that was his trademark.

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugged. “I’m fine.” He ducked his head, stared at his feet, noted that one toenail was torn and a bit bloody. Huh. Pain tolerance. But Sam was still watching him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“For what?”

“Getting messed up like that.”

“Don’t be.”

Bucky huffed a frustrated sigh. “I know, it’s stupid. Makes me feel stupid, asking the same questions again and again. Of course, I know what he thinks! Of course, I know–” The words lodged in his throat, and he curled his hand into a fist, tight, tight, so tight he could feel his nails on the edge of cutting into his palm–

“–how much you mean to him,” Sam finished, and the sound made Buck relax his fist.

He shrugged again. “I just… forget sometimes.” Ugh, that came out all choky.

Sam crossed his arms, in that way that said he was settling into a conversation. “You had a pretty good excuse, man. He’s a supersoldier, it’s always kinda freaky when something actually brings him down, if only for a little while. Haven’t known him as long as you have, of course, but you’re not the only one who’s got a few more gray hairs today.”

Bucky frowned at him, and Sam smirked back, then got serious again. “But what I mean to say is… what Dr. Dal said. ‘Peaks and valleys’. Life isn’t a straight line. It goes up and down and sometimes it’ll run level for a while, but then things are going to change again.”

“I _know–”_ Bucky tried to interrupt, but Sam cut him off.

“Give yourself a break, man. I know people who haven’t seen the half of what you have, and you are _way_ ahead of the curve. Steve’s right. You are way stronger than you even know. Other than him,” Sam jerked his head to indicate Steve, “you are probably the strongest person I know. They had you for seventy years. You’ve been free for, what, three years?”

“Four,” Bucky said quietly. “Next month.”

“So, seventy years to four–”

“I was in cryo for six months.”

Sam threw his hands in the air. “You’re just making my point stronger. Bucky, the important thing isn’t whether you’re going up or going down, the important thing is that you _keep_ going. _Keep_ living. Because that’s what life is for. To be lived. And someday, whenever it happens to be, you’ll be able to look back and…” Sam hesitated. “It’s like the dark parts don’t look as dark when you can see the light parts around them.”

There was a moment of silence, before Bucky tilted his head, felt a smile coming across his face, which he hastily turned into a frown. “Are you preaching to me, Wilson?”

Sam chuckled. “Well, it is in my blood.”

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, glanced back at Steve, who was kneeling to scratch Steph’s head. “I just don’t know what I’d do without him.” The words surprised him, and he bit his lip.

“You never know. You just find out.”

Bucky glanced at him, sharply, saw the shadows on his face, even in the bright sunshine. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Sam seemed to turn toward Bucky, then hesitate. “You’re not alone, you know. No matter what, you’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said again. He turned and smiled at Sam. “I know.”

He saw Sam smile back, then the other man put a hand on his shoulder, stepping closer as he did so. Bucky suddenly knew what Sam wanted to do, and without thinking, he said, “It’s okay.”

It occurred to him, as he hugged Sam back, that he had never really had a hug from Steve’s ‘other best friend’. Sam was a lot smaller than Steve, but he was warm and caring, and Bucky thought that, just maybe, he’d found himself a second brother.

Sam’s hand lightly patted his shoulder, before they pulled apart… and Bucky became conscious of Steve standing a couple yards away, hands in his pockets, grinning his head off. Bucky felt his cheeks warm, and he spoke before Steve could.

“I’m still his favorite, you know.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna argue with _that._ But,” he turned to Steve, “who’s the better cook?”

Steve winced and backed up a step, his smile becoming a laughing grimace. He shook his head. “That… depends on what’s being cooked.”

“Now _that_ ,” Sam said, turning to Bucky, “is the answer of a guy who’s scared to fight us both at the same time.”

“I don’t know, sounds like the answer of a good captain to me,” Bucky answered. He caught Steve’s eye, and the blond man winked at him. Bucky grinned back.

But that night he woke several times in the dark to listen to Steve’s breathing. The fourth time he jerked awake, he reached across the space between them, and ever so softly slid his fingers around Steve’s wrist. Steve didn’t stir and Bucky slept ‘til morning with the feel of his friend’s pulse to comfort him.

Shuri, and the doctor she’d worked with, had left the after-care instructions with Sam, who told Bucky it was basically, ‘Leave him alone, unless he starts throwing up blood again.’ Just the idea of that made Bucky swallow hard. But by the next day there seemed to be nothing wrong with Steve, except that he maybe moved a little slower, or jokingly brushed off Sam’s invitation of a wrestling match to settle who got the last slice of garlic toast.

Every time his eyes met Bucky’s, though, there was something in the way Steve smiled, something that always made Bucky grin back, and any fears faded to dust on the wind.

***

Steve and Sam had arrived on a Friday; Monday happened to be Bucky’s laundry day. Every household did the washing at least once a week, and on any given day, one could find a dozen women and children down by the river chatting, laughing, splashing… and working.

Today, Bucky and Steve were the first ones to show up at the main ‘washing hole’ as Bucky called it, where the riverbank fell back to form a little beach some 50 feet long. Umkhulu and the boys were quick to appear though, and the joking and singing started.

Steve was out in the water past his knees, taking the wet things thrown to him by the boys. The real work of soaping and scrubbing clothes usually fell to Steve whenever he was around: a combination of his strength and having two good hands. Bucky, helping Umkhulu wring the water out as Steve finished each article, glanced up at a squeal and saw Mabhuti come dashing down the grass toward them.

“Steve!”

The big blond man fired the shirt he was finished with at Bucky, and turned to spread his arms wide. “Mabhuti!”

The child went splashing into the water, throwing himself at Steve, who swept him up, tossing him in the air a few times, before hugging him close. Nontasasa followed a little slower, not quite as keen to get soaked, and wrapped her arms around Steve’s waist.

Umkhulu went to hang the wrung out shirt on a bush, and Bucky straightened up, propped his hand on his right hip. “Hey, Steve, you planning on doing any more work?”

“Yeah,” his friend called back. He leaned to set Mabhuti down in water up to his waist, and rubbed a hand over the little boy’s hair. _“Siphantse senziwe. Xa sigqiba siza kudlala.”_

 _“Ulungile,”_ Bucky heard him answer. Nontasasa grabbed his hand, tugged him off to the side, out of Steve way and a little further out into the water. _“Yiza,”_ she said.

It would have been only a few minutes later that Bucky saw Steve scrubbing the last pair of jeans. Avi and Fundani had been splashing each other, but now they both shouted and went sloshing up onto the shore. Bucky followed their gaze to see that Sam had joined the group, along with a couple more women and half-a-dozen children. He smiled; Fundani especially had taken a shine to Sam. It was fun for all the boys to have these extra men around who didn’t have any kids of their own to look after. Steve and Sam were both better with them, it had taken Bucky a week to really get comfortable with the little ones, not that they gave you time to be uncomfortable–

“Buck!”

He turned to catch the wet pants Steve threw, and saw the other man turn away, walking through the water toward where Mabhuti was getting dunked by Nontasasa and giggling. Bucky started to turn back to Umkhulu.

He never did get around to wringing out that pair of his jeans.

Nontasasa screamed.

She was scrambling backwards, falling into the water, Steve suddenly dove further out, and for a moment the world seemed to freeze, suspending Bucky as he had been suspended so many times before.

The moment shattered.

The water exploded upward, split by some monster of a creature, Steve draped across the dark body, and… the unmistakeable shape of a child dangling from its mouth.

Bucky saw it all, crystal clear, almost in slow motion. He was running forward into the water, hand going down to check that his knife was in his belt.

Steve was thrown off, the beast thrashing its huge head from side to side. The child fell, the monster plunged back into the water. Steve resurfaced and got slammed by the swell of water the crocodile had created.

Bucky saw it all, his trained eye and brain snapping all the pieces together: Steve to Bucky’s right, the child’s body to the left, and in between, the dark shape that only Bucky’s superior eyesight could pick out, not six yards away.

Bucky didn’t know much about crocodiles, he’d seen them a few times while out boating on the river and down by the lake. He knew what they looked like and this was definitely one here, but it was about five times the size of anything you could call normal.

He was waist deep himself, when Steve dove back toward the shore, toward him. Bucky sprang forward, his hand flying out. He reached for Steve. The water dragged at him and his hand fell short.

And now Steve cried out.

Bucky was moving without thinking, he was thinking by instinct.

Steve fell.

Bucky dove.

Hard, rough, knotty, jagged; he felt it slam into his stomach.

Bucky was the one lifted up now, thrown into the clear air. A moment weightless, before he hit the water again. It was shallow enough that he went right down to the bottom.

Water all around. The shape of the monster.

He pulled his feet under him and stood, pushing off from the riverbed, his head and upper body shooting back up out of the water; it streamed off him.

Eyes closed for a moment, he screamed, “Mabhuti!” Steve had to get the boy, get away, get back to the shore. He flung back his sheet of wet hair, found his footing waist deep, opened his eyes. He was facing out across the river, and for a moment he was afraid…

A swirl on the surface some ten feet away, that huge shadow in the muddied water, and he knew he was exactly where he wanted to be.

His hand went down to his side (weak points, find the weakness), gripped the handle of his knife (might be sharp enough to go through croc hide, but he wasn’t going to get a second chance), the knife Steve had given him.

_Steve._

He might have glanced over his shoulder, if the crocodile hadn’t started moving again. But he didn’t need to see, to know. To know they were behind him, Steve and Mabhuti fighting to live, while Bucky stood between them and death.

The crocodile struck.

If he’d had a left arm, he would have lost it, again. Instead, as the massive jaws came down, a searing pain tore across his left thigh. But he was already in motion, his hand flashing out across his body, the blade of the knife he held catching a gleam of sunlight, as it came down.

The momentum of the attack had actually spun him toward the croc, and in that second before the creature surged forward once more, Bucky struck. Some seventy-year-old lesson, drilled into him over and over until it became instinct, guided his hand and he drove the knife as hard as he could, into the monster’s eye.

Bucky had an iron grip on the handle of his knife, and he put every ounce of his weight and strength behind the blow. He felt something fleshy press up around the bottom of his fist–

The world exploded.

The crocodile seemed to go straight up in the air, Bucky was yanked off his feet, he was literally _dangling_ by one arm (his only arm) from the handle of his knife buried in the creature’s head. He could feel the blade twisting inside its flesh, before they both crashed back into the water.

He had the presence of mind to hold his breath before they went under.

For a moment he was simply pulled through the water and he kicked out, trying to keep up with the beast’s head, and digging the knife blade down even more firmly. He was wrenched up into the air again, gasped a breath.

Back under.

Water, air, water again.

The force of the beast’s struggle as it rolled and rolled again, wrenching Bucky one way and then another. Its raw power was almost overwhelming; he could hear the strange unearthly roar of its pain and fury. Or maybe that was just the blood rushing in his ears.

Bucky was fighting, he was fighting with everything he had, pouring all his energy into forcing the knife further and further into the crocodile’s head. He had only his legs to try to get any kind of leverage with, but he found himself reaching, twisting, turning, all between the huge body and the river floor and the open air. Bucky fought like he had never fought before.

He had his mouth open when a wave caught him full in the face, and he sucked in a breath, _felt_ the water burn his lungs, before he was coughing.

He was coughing and gasping and trying to breathe, the water flying all around him, the monster writhing and twisting, its head violently thrashing back and forth.

Bucky couldn’t catch his breath, he was flung one way, then another. He bit his tongue, tasted blood. He was bashed against the massive knobby head again and again, the hard lumps and sharper spines bruising him painfully.

Between the pain and the lack of air, Bucky could feel his hold slipping. He wondered if he should let go.

_No!_

Odd how he could think something like that so clearly, even in the middle of the most terrible fight of his life. He remembered punching bullies to save Steve. He remembered shooting Nazis to save Steve. He remembered losing his arm to save Steve. And he remembered letting go.

But not today.

That day he had let go, he had stopped fighting Steve to save Steve. Today, he was fighting _for_ Steve, _for Mabhuti,_ and that was a fight he had never stopped, _would_ never stop.

Today, he would hold on.

Underneath him the monster rose, and he rose with it.

The knife slipped.

He fell.

Bucky felt as if he fell for a long time, but he had time for no more than one breath before he hit the water. There was a swirl of current from the monster’s thrashing, it yanked him down.

He couldn’t breathe.

Everything was dark, he knew he was under the water, he could feel it on his face, pressing against his lips. He was on his back, and something was pressing against his chest, something that grew heavier by the heartbeat.

The rough scales told him the story: the crocodile had fallen or rolled on top of him. It was no longer struggling, it was collapsing, covering him, crushing him against the rocks at the bottom of the river.

Bucky’s thoughts were getting fuzzy around the edges, they were beginning to drift. He tried to focus on his lungs, begging, _hurting_ for air. _No,_ he ordered them. _No!_ He clamped his lips together even tighter.

He closed his eyes too. And then the air bubbles were slipping out from between his lips: one, two three, too many… _NO!_

Involuntarily, he tried to suck in a breath. He couldn’t; the weight was beyond his strength, his chest was about to cave in.

He was dying.

Bucky didn’t want to die. But if he died to save Steve… _You’re worth it,_ he thought.

An echo of Steve’s voice: _You’re the reason I’m alive._

Sam: _You guys give me a pretty good reason to keep going too._

_Ingcuka Emhlophe!_

_Bucky!_

_You’re the reason I’m alive, too………_

Bucky didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. For them.

Mentally, he took up every last ounce of fight left in his body, poured it down his arm, into his hand, and drove his knife into the great shadow of death that crushed him.

It did not seem strange that he was floating, he felt very light and actually _happy_. He could feel someone holding him, calling: “Bucky!”

 _Steve,_ he tried to answer.

Bucky faded away into blackness.

***

Now it was Steve’s turn to sit by the bed and wait for his friend to wake. The nurses had hinted that he might be more comfortable lying down, but Steve was perfectly happy to put up with a little pain. Bucky _might_ have spoken to him before he passed out, and he  _might_ have been conscious for the ride to the hospital, and the nurses  _might_  tell him that Bucky was resting now and all his vitals were fine, but Steve still didn’t completely trust anyone else to keep watch.

He remembered doing this after the fight in Siberia; both of them had been seriously beat up, but Bucky’s broken ribs, and concussion had all been concerning, not to mention the fact that he’d had his highly tuned and connected metal arm blasted off.

He remembered the shock and terror of seeing Bucky go down like that, he remembered springing to shield his friend from Stark, he… took a deep breath, quickly stopped, and breathed in very slowly and carefully. Okay, that did hurt.

There were no tubes or wires, at least for monitoring the patient, in this hospital. Just the slim black band on Bucky’s wrist, which apparently told them everything they needed to know. Steve could feel it pressing against his own wrist where he clasped Bucky’s hand tightly.

He shifted in the chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The dry shirt he’d been given was loose enough to not tug at the bandages across his lower back. He wondered if it would scar.

He heard a murmur in the hallway behind him, and glanced over his shoulder, wondering if Sam… No, someone else passed by, talking animatedly in Wakandan.

Bucky’s hand twitched in his, and he turned slowly.

“On your left,” Bucky rasped.

Their eyes met, and suddenly Bucky was grinning like an idiot, Steve grinning back despite the tears burning in his eyes. Bucky made a noise that might have been the beginning of a laugh, except he froze, his eyes slamming shut, his grip on Steve’s hand tightening painfully.

“S’okay, Buck,” Steve said softly. “Breathing’s gonna hurt for a few days. A bunch of cracked ribs, and that bite on your leg took a few dozen stitches, but otherwise it’s all bruises.”

“Wonderful,” Bucky muttered, opening his eyes again. “You… okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve knew better than to hide anything from his friend. “Got slashed across the back, but that’s it.”

There was a moment’s silence. Steve looked down at Bucky’s hand, the cuts across his knuckles already healing. How many times had he seen this hand like that? “This isn’t going to stop is it?” He looked up, stared at his friend. “You saving me.”

Bucky’s confused expression melted into a lopsided smile. “Well, it’s been a hundred years, kinda hard to break habits that old.”

Steve found himself chuckling, but a shadow crossed Bucky’s face. Before Steve could say anything, he heard someone come into the room behind him.

“Hey, Cap.”

Steve was on his feet in a moment, ignoring the stab of pain, turning the chair so Sam could drop into it. He gave Bucky’s hand a reassuring squeeze, before he moved away to grab another seat from the other side of the room.

“How’s Bucky?” Sam was saying, before he stopped, his eyes focussing on the bed. “Oh, hey, man.”

“Mabhuti?” Bucky and Steve asked at the same time.

Sam slumped back, crossed his arms, then lifted one hand to rub over his face. He looked up at Steve, a certain strength behind the exhaustion in his eyes. “Yeah. He’ll make it. They got him stable, so far, so good.”

Steve let his breath out, his shoulders dropping with the released tension. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them quickly and nodded, swallowing hard. "Thank God," he said softly. It had been too horrible to hold the little boy he'd grown to love so much, and see his life blood draining away. He hadn’t even noticed the pain of his own wounds as he worked with Sam to staunch the bleeding… He realized that someone must have given Sam a new shirt too, because he'd torn his off to use for bandaging.

“What happened to him?” Bucky asked.

Steve glanced up at Sam, and the other man opened his mouth a half-second before Steve. “Croc got his leg. Bit it off above the knee when Cap jumped on him. Saved his life,” he added, maybe seeing some of Steve’s conflicting emotions in his face.

“You did most of the work,” Steve said quietly. He’d seen it more than once: Sam’s quick, capable hands covered in blood, racing to save a life. It still amazed him.

“Wouldn’t have any patients in the first place, without Buckaroo here.” Sam nodded to Bucky, who ducked his chin.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

Sam blinked, then gave a slow, tired smile. “Yeah, I’m good.” He let his head tip forward, ‘til his chin rested on his chest. Steve could see his eyes drifting shut. “These things we do,” he murmured.

“So that others may live.”

Sam’s head jerked up.

“What?” Bucky asked. “It’s the pararescue motto.”

Something in Sam’s worn face made Steve reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder. Without thinking he took Bucky’s one hand in his other.

“Sounds like ours too.”

***

Other than his chest feeling like an elephant had sat on it, and the rest of him feeling like a herd of zebras had run over it, Bucky was awake and alert, which was good because his hospital room started getting busy.

Nontasasa and Khanyiswa came in for a visit, both pretty shaken and tearful, but overwhelmingly grateful to the three men. The little girl mostly sat in Steve’s lap, hugging him tightly, which made Bucky smile.

But at one point she came across to the bed and leaned on her elbows, looking at him very hard, eyes bright like stars, with tears hovering just behind them. Her face was no more than a couple feet away, and Bucky finally asked, “What?”

She put out her arms then, reaching to slide one behind his neck, hugging him in the least painful way possible, as she pressed her face against his shoulder. Bucky tilted his head to rest his cheek against her hair, which was rough and tangled. _“Musani ukoyika,”_ he whispered. _“Sisaphila.”_

She sobbed once, and Bucky turned to kiss the top of her head. _“Ewe,”_ she managed to say, the words muffled in the fabric of his hospital robe. _“Kulungile ukaba uphile.”_

When she pulled back, rubbing her hand over her eyes, she added, “Baba would say you are the bravest man ever. For him I say, _‘Enkosi kakhulu.’_ ”

It hurt to lift his arm, but he reached out to pull her back in and kiss her forehead. _“Enkosi,”_ was all he could say.

A nurse was next. She seemed to be in a hurry; just poked and prodded Bucky a little bit, checked something on a tablet she carried, and then was gone, with the admonition to ‘keep him quiet’.

With these comings and goings, Sam moved to sit on Bucky’s other side, chair tipped back against the wall, feet propped on the bed. He was making some joke about supersoldiers keeping him busy, when Dr. Dal walked in.

“Hey,” Bucky croaked. “You don’t work at the hospital.”

The older man smiled. “I do when my friends are in it.”

“I’m honoured,” Sam said, making Dr. Dal laugh.

It was Bucky’s doc who told them the story of the monster Bucky had fought and killed earlier that day. ‘Demon-of-the-lake’ was what the people called him, the crocodile that could not be killed. Every few years he would suddenly appear, snatch some unsuspecting person off the shore and vanish. Many searches had been conducted, but only once had a person actually closed with the beast. That warrior unfortunately had disappeared like all the rest.

“Why the heck didn’t I get the bogey man stories?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because he had not been seen in seven years,” the doctor answered. “The last person he ate was a sour old hermit and people suggested the beast had gotten… how do you say… indigestion?”

Bucky grimaced to keep from chuckling, because that would hurt. Even though it wasn’t funny, it was. “How big is it?” he asked.

“Thirty feet from nose to tail. He could bite you off at the waist and swallow the top half of you in one gulp.”

Sam gave a low whistle.

“Well, I hope you aren’t going to report this one to National Geographic or something,” Steve said.

Dr. Dal grinned and said something which Bucky always translated as ‘when pigs fly’.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Don’t think they want the word getting out that the most technologically advanced people in the world couldn’t even _find_ a croc, and a white guy with one arm and a knife _killed_ it.”

Dr. Dal laughed outright, and Bucky rolled his eyes. He would have kicked Sam, but not moving was much more comfortable. His psychologist’s next words though, startled him.

“One man fighting for what he loves can beat a hundred men just fighting.”

He met Dr. Dal’s gaze and the other man smiled. “Well done, soldier.”

Bucky half-smiled, until the words clicked into another part of his brain, and then he had to turn his head away and focus very hard on Sam’s socked feet, desperately forcing down the lump in his throat.

How many times had he heard those words in one language or another? Once spoken to Sergeant Barnes, then to the Asset, the Winter Soldier, but now… now spoken to Bucky. Just him, just Bucky. He felt Steve’s hand, still holding his, tighten gently, and he risked a glance up.

Steve was smiling, soft and warm like morning sunlight.

Bucky felt himself relax, and then of course he was smiling back.

***

He awoke in the night to the slightly sweaty warmth of a hand covering his. He blinked in the soft glow of the ‘night light’, saw Steve sitting in the chair beside him again.

The doctors had been happy with the rate Bucky’s body was healing at, but they wanted to keep him a day or two to make sure everything went smoothly. Steve and Sam had both been given cots in his room, or at least the cool Wakandan version of a cot, and after a dinner that was more ‘fancy hotel’ than ‘hospital’, they had all gone to sleep pretty quickly. Or at least Bucky had.

Even with all the pain, he felt simply tired. No voices, no memories, nothing running through his head. It was as if he had emptied himself into that fight, and there was nothing left except… satisfaction. He knew that as his energy returned, so would everything else. But as he’d dozed off, he couldn’t help wishing life could always be like this: surrounded by his brothers, secure in the knowledge that they had done their best to help people who needed it.

Bucky turned his hand over and grasped Steve’s, the other man’s head coming up sharply.

“Hey,” Buck said softly.

Steve looked down at their clasped hands on top of the sheets. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s normal.” He shrugged.

“Remember Siberia?”

It was a sign of how tired he was that Bucky’s first thought was of snow, and Steve talking about the freezer truck.

“I just… I just remember fighting so hard there was nothing else in my head. I mean… I just–”

“You fought for me,” Bucky whispered. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“But I just remember how much blood was on your face, how you looked up at me…” Steve’s voice faltered. “And you still had the strength to grab my hand.”

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky said.

Steve made a choky little noise, and Bucky tugged on his hand, knowing what he needed to say. “Stevie, when I was down there, I thought I was gonna die. And I thought... I thought if I did, it would be worth it, because I’d saved you, saved the others. But then I… I realized...”

He looked up met his friend’s gaze squarely. “I realized you were worth more than that. I realized you were worth living for.”

Somehow they ended up curled up together in a hospital bed for the second time in a week. But this time it was Bucky with his arm around Steve, his cheek pressed against the top of Steve’s head. He didn’t care how much it hurt, he just cared that Steve needed him. And somehow, surrounded by each other’s warmth, there was really no room for pain.

They slept, and they woke; stronger for the giving, stronger for the taking.

Also with a neck cramp for Steve and a numb arm for Bucky, since these hospital beds weren't made for two supersoldiers; but a small price indeed for each of them to know that they were here, they were safe, they were alive.

 

 _We hold onto each other_  
_All we have is all we need_  
_‘Cause one way or another_  
_We always make it, you and me_

 _This life can almost kill you_  
_When you’re trying to survive_  
_It’s good to be here with you_  
_And it’s good to be alive_

 _It’s good to be alive_  
_I was lost and I was gone_  
_I was almost dead inside_  
_You and me against the world_  
_It’s a beautiful night_  
_It’s good to be alive_

_-‘Good To Be Alive’ by Skillet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wakandan:  
>  _Siphantse senziwe. Xa sigqiba siza kudlala._ : We are almost done. When we finish we will play.  
>  _Yiza_ : Come on  
>  _Musani ukoyika. Sisaphila._ : Don’t be afraid. We are still alive.  
>  _Kulungile ukaba uphile:_ It is good to be alive.
> 
> Whew! That was work. But the best kind! Also go listen to Daughtry's 'Undefeated'. That is _their_ song, and my 'bring on Endgame' anthem.


	24. You Raise Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second last chapter, and oh, gosh, I hope this isn't too messy or anything. I wrote most of it in the middle of the night. 
> 
> Brothers 2 Infinity
> 
> March 10, 2018

_Bucky couldn’t count the number of times he had carried Steve home after a fight. Sometimes just gripping Steve’s arm. Sometimes with Steve’s arm around his shoulders. And sometimes he carried Steve in his arms._

_He had rolled his eyes, and growled at Steve. He had cursed at him, and told him he was an idiot (because he was). And he had, only a few times, said what he actually thought: that Steve was the toughest boy he’d ever met, the bravest man he’d ever known, the best friend he’d ever had._

_Bucky could count on one hand (if it happened again he would need his other hand... wait, he didn't have another hand anymore) the number of times Steve had carried him. Steve was suddenly bigger, taller, and he would look worried, he would look relieved, he would smile. If anything, Bucky felt that he was_ grateful, _grateful to repay his friend in kind. What he never seemed to realize was how many times he had already carried his brother, in a thousand other ways._

_Bucky remembered that much._

_Remembering helped block out the pain, helped him put one foot in front of the other. Steve’s hold on him was strong and sure. Even though…_

_“You- you’re hurt.”_

_Steve’s huff sounded somewhere between anger and laughter. “Not as much as you. Now hush. Just keep walking.”_

_He wasn’t sure just what happened, he thought his foot must have tripped Steve, because the next thing he knew they both went down. Again._

_Something jabbed his side. Pain screamed through him and the world went grey._

_The next thing he saw clearly was the outline of T’Challa behind Steve._

_“Don’t touch him!” The words burst out of Bucky, fear sending energy crackling along his frayed nerves. He tried to put out his arms, push himself up, and was sharply reminded he only had one now. “Please,” he gasped, sitting up now and struggling to pull his feet under him, “take me, not him.”_

_He could_ feel _Steve (the idiot, the_ punk) _like a shield between him and those terrible claws. “It wasn’t him. You have to know that.”_

 _He heard the desperation in Steve’s voice, and thought,_ This is it, now we’re going to die. _And he knew that he really would die before he let one of those claws touch Steve._

_“Don’t… touch him!” He was standing, swaying, and he reached for Steve’s shoulder. Steve twisted to grab at him, and glare at him._

_“Buck, stay down.”_

_“I could do this all day.” He had no idea where the words came from, he only knew that the world seemed to go quiet. Steve was frozen, staring at him, while Bucky stared back._

_T’Challa spoke._

_“I will not hurt you. It seems to me you have been hurt enough.”_

_Bucky looked up at him, blinked, his muddied brain taking forever to process. “You–”_

_“I have heard the truth,” the man said quietly, now looking at Steve. “And I must apologize.” He met Bucky’s gaze again. “I sought vengeance, when I should have been seeking truth. I have let it set me free. Perhaps it is time I do the same for you.”_

_It didn’t really hit him until later, until his legs gave out, until his knees hit the snow, and Steve knelt beside him. “Buck? Can I–” He stopped, and Bucky looked at him, the blood streaked across his face, those tired eyes, those eyes that belonged to a skinny kid who said ‘I can do this all day.’_

_“What?”_

_“Let me carry you. It’ll be quicker.”_

_“No,” he growled, and put out his hand to push himself up. His arm gave out._

_Steve did not say another word, he simply turned toward Bucky, keeping his arm across Bucky’s back, slid his other arm under Bucky’s knees, and stood._

_Bucky felt him waver, and he instinctively kept still, not wanting his brother to fall. “Put me down!” he snapped, but Steve just took one step and then another and another._

_Bucky surrendered. He pulled his arm a little tighter around Steve’s neck, trying to make it easier for the other man. He let his head fall against Steve’s shoulder, closed his eyes for a moment._

_He could hear Steve’s heart beating. Throbbing in his chest, pumping the blood through his body that gave him the strength to just take one step and then another._

_The truth hit Bucky. They were alive, they were both alive, they were receiving help from T’Challa, safety, sanctuary… And they were alive._

_“To the end of the line, pal.”_

_He must have spoken out loud, because the strong arms that carried him tightened._

_“I’ve got you,” Steve whispered._

Bucky heard a sound behind him, and spoke without looking. “Thought you could beat me out of bed?”

Steve gave a little huff, walked across from the hut to sit by the fire. “Well, I did think coffee would be a nice thing to wake up to on your birthday.”

Bucky turned to smile at him. “You’d be right. So I made some.”

Steve gave him one of those looks, then grinned. “Happy birthday, pal.”

“Thanks.” Bucky nodded at the mug he had set on a smooth rock. “Pass that and I’ll fill it.”

Steve took the steaming drink, smiled at him again. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence, on opposite sides of the little fire, backs to the hut, watching the light grow. He had seen a hundred sunrises all over the world, but Bucky wondered if this was the most beautiful yet.

The sky was clear except for a few little clouds on the horizon that looked like pure gold in the deep soft blue. The mountains were strong and dark, except for their crowns of snow; the air was so clear this morning that Bucky thought he could even see an eagle soaring between peaks.

The grass and the trees were thick and green, vibrant even in the shadows. Bucky could smell the dew, the damp earth, the wood smoke.

“Life can be beautiful,” Steve said softly.

Bucky set his mug down (one of the ones Sam had given him last year) and reached for the sketchbook which lay open. “Don’t I know it.”

Steve took the pad of paper, glanced at it, and stilled. Bucky saw him smile before he looked back up. “Yeah.”

“Just looked at that one this morning.” He cocked his head, gave Steve his sternest look. “So, don’t try to give me anything else today.”

Steve shot him a mock-wounded look. “Not even a hug?”

Bucky laughed softly. “Nah, I’ll take those too.”

“Happy birthday can I have some coffee?”

They pulled apart, and Bucky glanced over his shoulder, to see Sam yawning, as he ambled outside, and stopped to stretch. Bucky supressed his snicker at how Sam’s words all ran together, and said seriously, “You’ll have to get your own mug, though.”

“Aw, maaan…”

When he was finally sipping from his hot drink, Sam started to perk up a bit. “What are you two talking about that couldn’t wait for a more reasonable time of the morning?”

“’This isn’t flying, it’s falling,’” Bucky quoted. “’With style.’” He raised his eyebrows at Steve’s startled expression, and nodded his head at the sketchbook, back in Steve’s lap. “Shuri made me watch it. I didn’t know _you’d_ seen _Toy Story_ though.”

“Yeah.” Steve looked down at the picture again. “Rainy night in St. Louis. Looking for you. Couldn’t sleep. So… I watched a movie instead.”

_Oh._

“He cried,” Sam said,

Bucky gave Steve a little smile, wishing he could make up for some of the pain he had caused his friend during those two years. “So did I, pal.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “Now I feel better.”

Both of the other men turned to stare and he groaned. “Never mind.”

Bucky had a pretty good idea of what would have caused Sam to cry over a children’s movie, and he quickly nudged the subject aside. “It’s that line: ‘To infinity and beyond.’ Kinda reminds you of something doesn’t it.”

“To the end of the line,” Steve said softly, resting one hand on the sketch he had done what seemed like ages ago, but was really only eight months.

“Right back at’cha.”

Sam broke the following silence. “You guys _do_ know that a line has no end, right?”

Bucky and Steve twisted to stare at him.

“What?” Steve asked.

“Yeah. In geometry.” He set his mug down. “A line, like an actual _line–_ ”

“–extends infinitely in both directions,” Bucky interrupted. He could hear the echo of his teacher’s voice, the scratch of chalk on the board as the thin white line split the blackboard, until it reached the edges and the man had to stop.

Bucky felt his blood quickening, an awed smile beginning to work its way across his face. “A line is infinite. It _has_ no end.”

He glanced across at Steve, who was staring down at the sketchpad again. Slowly he lifted his head, and met Bucky’s eyes. The intensity of his look made Bucky blink, before the blond man’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah,” Steve said, keeping his voice level, but it was his sudden little smile that said a thousand words.

They looked at each other for a long moment, before Bucky glanced back at Sam, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “Didn’t know you were such a genius, Sam.”

“Well, I _did_ graduate from high-school. Which is apparently more than you can say. Or so I’ve heard,” he added, raising one eyebrow.

Bucky knew that Sam was goading him, knew that Sam knew how much legends like that drove him crazy. But he reacted anyway. “For Pete’s sake! I was on the honor roll in high-school, I was saving to go to college. He went to art school, got the highest grades… Argh!” Bucky gripped his forehead with his hand. “Where the heck do people get these crazy ideas?” He jerked his head at Steve. “He had brains before he had brawn, you know. That’s how he knew what to do with it.”

Steve laughed now. “Yeah, and Bucky always had both. He just had to figure it out as he went along.”

Sam snorted. “I guess some people never grow up.”

“Who’s the youngest here?” Bucky wondered out loud, then ducked as Sam threw a handful of grass at him. “Childish,” he admonished, wagging his head at the other man. “I think you need to have a few more birthdays before you’re fit company for this impressionable youngster.” He raised his eyebrows at Steve.

Steve laughed, suddenly. “Don’t worry, Sam,” he said reassuringly. “Maturity has nothing to do with age.”

“Got _that_ right.” Sam got to his feet. “Which means I will do the mature thing and not let your breakfast burn.”

Bucky frowned up at him. “But you haven’t started cooking anything yet.”

“Exactly!”

***

Bucky dangled his feet in the pool, and watched the others dance in a cloud of yellow butterflies.

Khwezi chasing Sam chasing Fundani and Avi,  Sam catching up to Fundani and swinging him off his feet, the two of them spinning until Sam staggered and went down. Avi and Khwezi jumped on top, and the air rang with their laughter.

He thought of Sam’s face when they’d stepped into _Umyezo wase-Eden,_ the other man knocked speechless. The only time Bucky had seen it look more beautiful was on Steve’s birthday.

With a little smile, Bucky turned his head to watch Steve, Mabhuti safe in his big hands, swooping the little boy through the air until he was breathless with laughter. “Spin!” he cried. “Spin!”

So Steve spun, slow and graceful at first, then faster and faster until only Bucky's enhanced sight kept them from blurring completely.

Oh, no, they were blurring. He sucked in a deep breath, and closed his eyes to just listen. The rush and cascade of the waterfall, the higher trickle of a little run over some rocks. Someone’s breathing, just to his right.

Bucky opened his eyes again and turned to look at Nontasasa. “Why are you sitting here?” she asked. “It’s your birthday, you should dance too.”

Bucky grinned a bit at her. _“Ewe._ But it is beautiful to watch too.”

She smiled, nodded, and plopped down beside him. Like it was something he’d always known how to do, he put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. “Your brother’s not too heavy, is he?”

Bucky was only half serious, but Nontasasa snapped her head around. “I can carry him all day," she said, crossing her arms. “I am strong, he is little.” She ducked her head then, kicking her feet in the water to cover up what she said next.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at the top of her head. “What did you say?” he asked quietly.

Now the girl jerked her chin up. “I said, ‘I _should_ carry him, because it’s my fault he lost his leg.”

“Why?” Bucky asked quietly.

“Because I’m supposed to take care of him.”

Bucky might have smiled if the situation wasn’t actually serious. She sounded exactly like all the rest of them, who had seen someone they loved hurt, and needed someone to blame. Well, at least this he knew how to deal with. “First off, it was the crocodile who ate his leg. I didn’t see you wearing those big jaws,” he added teasing just a little. “But, Sassy,” he gently turned her face so he could look directly into her eyes. “I could tell you over and over ‘It’s not your fault’ and that’s true because it isn’t. But it’s not going to change anything unless you choose to believe me.”

“But…”

“Tell me, does Mabhuti blame you?”

They both glanced over to where the little boy was now hopping around on his one leg beside Steve, like they were in a three-legged-race or something… Bucky reined in his memories.

“Sisi!" Mabhuti called. "Look! Like a kan-groo!”

Bucky couldn’t help smiling at his mispronunciation, of ‘kangaroo’, and he turned back to Nontasasa. “See? He is just happy he has a sister who loves him so much she carries him everywhere. A sister who gives him hugs, when he wakes up from bad dreams. A sister who gives him the ripest mango in the bunch. All that matters to him, is that you’re here for him _now_. All he knows is that he loves you. Now, isn’t that what _really_ matters?”

She sat quite still, so still a butterfly flew up and landed on her shoulder. And then she said nothing, simply turned and lunged to throw her arms around Bucky’s middle as far as she could reach. Bucky hugged her back.

After another minute of quiet, Bucky’s hand moving gently up and down her back, she pulled away, and scrambled to her feet. “Well,” she said, cocking her head to stare down at him, hands on her hips, pure Nontasasa. “Are you going to sit like a bump on a rock all day, or will you come and dance?”

Bucky laughed out loud, and jumped up. “Only if you’ll dance with me.”

He grabbed her hands and then they were twirling and jumping through the butterflies, until the girl grabbed at Steve, and Sam grabbed Mabhuti’s other hand so he dangled between them, laughing his head off, and Khwezi grabbed a handful of the leg of Bucky’s pants, and then… They were all one big circle, twirling through the fluttering wings that rose into the blue sky on the sound of laughter.

***

Bucky hadn’t tasted spaghetti in years. At least, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had it, which for him wasn’t saying much. But as he licked the last remnants of tomato sauce from his fork, he had to say it.

“Are you sure you’re not Italian, Wilson?”

“One hundred percent.” Sam cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because. I think you have the magic touch with this stuff.”

Sam gave a surprised laugh. “Thanks. I think.”

“Hey, we grew up with Italians. Remember eating at Mrs. Romano’s?” Bucky turned to Steve. He glimpsed her suddenly: black hair in a tight bun; smooth, olive complexion; that filmy sort of shawl she always wore with the Venetian boatmen all over it.

Steve was staring down at his empty plate, and Bucky paused. “What’s eatin’ you?”

He gave Bucky a sideways look, and Bucky was suddenly pretty sure… “Oh, go ahead. We’re the only grown-ups here.” He caught Steve’s sheepish smile, before the blond man made short work of licking his plate clean.

Sam laughed. “Now _that_ is a cook’s ultimate compliment.”

Steve shrugged, tossed back his mugful of water, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, before he spoke. “I always wanted to do that at Mrs. Romano’s.”

Bucky grinned at him. “That’s what I’m saying. This is as good as hers.”

Steve cocked his head considering. “Yeah, I think your right.”

“Woah,” Sam said, grinning and holding up his hands. “Did I just hear you guys right? Did you just say that something made today was as good as something made a hundred years ago? Whoa, you just blew… my… mind.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Well, we’re not going to make a habit of it,” he declared.

The sun sank into the west, warm and lingering, flooding the sky with the most beautiful shades of colour from the burning fire to the cool night blue. And Bucky thought of other sunsets in other places, other times, but with the same people. Sort of. Some had gone, some had come and gone, some had come. But… He turned his eyes to Steve, who sat watching the light play on the trees and the grass. Steve was simply _there._

“Thanks,” he said softly, surprising even himself.

Steve tilted his head slightly, gazing at him with a little smile in his eyes. “For what?”

This time Bucky knew exactly what he meant. “For being here. I know it’s not easy, it never has been. But thank you. For still being here.” His throat tightened and he had to clear it before he added the last words. “For being alive.”

Steve simply smiled bigger.

“That’s definitely the best birthday present I’ve ever had,” Bucky said.

“Watch it, Buckaroo,” Sam said, suddenly. “Keep going like that, and we won't get any sleep with his face shining like that.”

Now Steve flushed and it was his turn to start throwing grass around.

But as they lay in the warmth and darkness around the still-glowing embers, listening to the crickets and the song of a night bird, Bucky turned over on top of his one blanket.

“Steve?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“If a line has no end…”

He let his voice trail off, and in the silence he heard Steve roll over. Instinctively, Bucky put out his hand. Steve found it.

“Then it really is ‘to infinity and beyond’,” Steve answered.

Bucky felt his heart squeeze in his chest as he remembered those dark days when he had forgotten what light itself looked like. “Promise?”

Now, Steve sighed. He let their clasped hands rest on the soft grass, and Bucky made out that he had propped his other arm behind his head. The words came slow and measured, sweet and bitter all mingled together, ‘til Bucky couldn’t tell the difference. “You know I can’t promise that nothing’s ever going to happen to me. Things happen so fast. We both could have lost our lives in the river. You know that. But… I’m with you, Buck. And a part of me will always be. Even to the end of the line.”

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” Bucky whispered.

“I’ll do my best to make sure it is.”

Bucky lay still, staring up at the stars, Steve’s hand warm in his. Just the idea of losing that again, took his breath away, made his chest hurt.

“Buck, I know…” He stopped and made a little frustrated noise. “Just promise _me_ one thing? No matter what, keep living, okay? For me. You said I was worth it,” he added, his voice so faint Bucky could barely catch it.

“Only if you promise too,” Bucky whispered.

And now Steve’s hand tightened painfully, and Bucky could just _feel_ his memories of long lonely nights in the quiet of his apartment, days waking up to a world that no longer seemed to be his, moments when Steve might have given it all just to be back in whatever country, lying around a campfire, falling asleep under the stars, surrounded by his friends. And here he was.

“I’m with you to the end of the line, Buck.”

“I’m with you to the end of the line, Stevie.”

There was a silence, before Steve sniffed, and Bucky heard him rubbing his free hand across his face. He gave a little laugh. “Ain’t we a couple o’ saps,” he murmured, and now Bucky could hear him smiling.

“You started it,” Bucky answered. “Like you do most things.” He closed his eyes, rested his head on his pillow, and let his surroundings soak in. The presence of Sam (hopefully) asleep, the smell of the fire, the taste of Africa, the sound of Steve’s breathing.

He didn’t want to think about what _might_ happen. He wanted to think about what _was_. Now. He heard the echo of the children’s laughter, Mabhuti’s voice: _“I don't know if I want a new leg. I want to be just like you,_ Ingcuka Emhlophe!” He could feel the handle of a knife against his palm, a pen between his fingers, a hand gripping his.

_“I’ve got you, Buck.”_

_“I’ve got you, Steve.”_

“Happy birthday, Buck.”

Bucky smiled in the dark.

“It is.”

***

Steve took his time falling asleep.

He'd had a couple rough nights since the crocodile attack, waking up to watch Bucky sleep, and once to just hang on to him. Bucky had shown no impatience or irritation at being woken by his best friend gripping his hand so tight another man's bones might have broken. He had simply rolled over to put his head on Steve's chest and conked right back out again. 

Steve didn't know what the future held.

He didn't know what lay ahead for him. For him and Sam, for him and the Avengers, for him and Sharon. But one thing he knew: nothing and no one would ever replace Bucky.

No one could.

He didn't know what he'd done to deserve a friend, a _brother_ like Bucky. But he had him. And for that he would be forever grateful.

In the not-so-hushed hush of the African night, Steve could almost feel that all those lost birthdays, all those lost years, could never have quite equaled this one, this year.

He opened his eyes again, stared up at the brilliant galaxy of stars flung out above his head, and he made a wish on every single one of them: _I_ _wish he'll still be my friend next summer._

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, let his hold on Bucky's hand loosen, in case he wanted to pull away, and let the echo of his friend's voice carry him away.

_I've got you, Steve._

_I've got you, Bucky._

***

_The sketchbook lay open on the table, forgotten while the world slept._

_The clear pencil lines were lost in the darkness, but that did not negate their existence._

_Or the picture they formed._

_Steve stood on the edge a cliff, a world unknown at his feet. Misty hints of hollows and hills, dark valleys between mountains that rose sharp and strong. One could assume many rivers and plains, deserts and jungles into that mystery, all the beauty and harshness that combines to make a_ living _world._

_He stared out, hands at his sides, simply taking in the view._

_Bucky stood at his shoulder, ever so slightly behind him, not quite touching his friend, yet intrisically connected to him._

_They were not dressed for war, there was no shield, there were no knives. Only comfortable well-worn clothes, with a traveled feel to them, as there was to the men._

_They were whole, they were complete, they had conquered every challenge that had come in their way. And they were_ there.

_If one flipped the page, on the back there was an inscription, simple, to the point: To infinity…_

_Underneath in a different hand: and beyond._

_∞ ∞ ∞_

_“Beautiful view,” Steve said softly._

_Bucky nodded._ _“So,” he finally said, straightening his shoulders. “Where do we go from here?”_

_Steve turned to smile at him. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”_

_Bucky grinned back. “Anywhere.”_

_Somewhere he could hear Sam and Riley laughing. "You want to fly?"_

_"To the end of the line."_

_Steve laughed. "You know that's forever."_

_"I know."_

_So they did._

***

When the sun rose on a new day, it was to touch the peaceful faces of the three men sound asleep, with only a curious finch perched on a stick of firewood, keeping watch.

 

 _You raise me up so I can stand on mountains_  
_You raise me up to walk on stormy seas_  
_I am strong when I am on your shoulders_  
_You raise me up to more than I can be_

_-‘You Raise Me Up’ by Selah_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finis_
> 
>  
> 
> Well, almost. ;)
> 
> Bucky's memory at the beginning was partly inspired by [this beautiful fanart](https://pin.it/mm3myfyeerghtb).
> 
> I know there are a ton of different versions of that song, but Selah and Celtic Woman are my favourites.  
>    
> I really hope that wasn't terribly written!  
> And if you are wondering, that last little bit is supposed to be a dream. Who's? you ask. You figure it out. ;)


	25. Epilouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.K.A. To Infinity and Beyond! part II

April 27, 2018

Bucky knew what it meant.

He could feel the eyes of T’Challa and Okoye facing him, of the guards and the Three Musketeers, standing at a respectful distance. Curiosity from the children, quiet doubt from the guards. A simple, silent question from the king and his general.

Even the gray, brooding sky seemed to lean over his shoulder, watching him.

They all stood still and waited.

But as he stared down at the contents of the box resting in the back of his wagon, what he really noticed was the voices.

_“The procedure has already started.”_

_“Bucky‼”_

_“You are to be the new fist of HYDRA.”_

_“Grab my hand!”_

_“You pulled me from the river. Why?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Yes, you do.”_

_“What did I do?”_

_“Enough.”_

_“What do we do?”_

_“We fight.”_

_“Do you even remember them?”_

_“I remember all of them.”_

_“Don’t hurt him.”_

_“I will not hurt you. You have already been hurt too much.”_

_“So, no… new arm?”_

_“Nope, just me.”_

_“Ingcuka Emhlophe!”_

_“D’you ever wonder if it’s worth it to still be alive?”_

_“You’re worth it.”_

_“When I fell you caught me. You never even let me go.”_

_“You should know, I’m proud you’re my friend.”_

_“Captain America can’t rest. It’s just… Steve. His way. As long as he thinks he can do something, he’ll do it.”_

_“Do you ever think of joining him?”_

_“Yeah… Fighting with Steve was always different. It was… good. But… I want to do something different with my hands. Or the one I have left. Bring life. Not take it. At least… for now…”_

Shuri, the last time they had spoken about his arm: _“This will be the greatest thing I have ever built, you have my promise!”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because nothing is better than saving a life.”_

He had stared at her, blinked and turned away. Ashamed suddenly, and afraid that she would hear the broken whispers, begging, pleading for mercy.

HYDRA had made him that arm; in many ways, it had been a symbol of what they had made _him_ : a weapon, a tool. Used, put to work, fixed up, stored away—until the next mission. It had been a part of him (he remembered how that felt), his, and yet not his.

He remembered nights when that metal hand had been red, running with blood; he remembered the whirring noise as he tightened his grip on a throat, crushing the windpipe. He remembered eyes glassed over, reflecting the sky; he remembered the way the gleam on a knife blade matched the gleam on his arm.

He remembered them working on his arm; he remembered burning pain. He remembered the electric shock mechanism they had put in at some point, another method of control; he remembered The Chair.

_“Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat’. Rassvet. Pech’. Devyat’. Dobrokachestvennyy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon.”_

_“Uvidet’? Ty v bezopasnosti. YA pryamo zdes’.”_

_“YA znayu.”_

_“You’re Bucky. You still have all those skills, but they can’t make you use them anymore. It’s your choice now.”_

His choice.

It had taken him a long time to learn how to make choices again, to let himself choose, to let himself _want_. Steve had always made a big deal about that, until Bucky had told him off for saying ‘please’ one too many times. But there had been a secret pleasure in hearing it, and a pleasure in saying ‘no’, because Steve always heard him, always respected him. But so did others, so did Sam and Wanda and Natasha and Dr. Dal and Dr. Lin and Umkhulu and Khanyiswa and the kids and even Shuri (sometimes) and T’Challa…

He blinked, and everything clicked into place.

This was all a question. The arm was a gift, the request for help was… just that. A request. And if he said no, they wouldn’t hit him or beat him. They wouldn’t throw him in a dark cell and starve him for days on end. They would only be… disappointed.

If he said no…

He didn’t want to say no.

_“King T’Challa said he would help us. And he let us come here.”_

_“I am happy he did. I am happy you are here.”_

“Nam! Nam!”

_“But you are happy here? You have everything you need?”_

_“Oh yes. For sure. It’s really more than I could ask for.”_

_“I know you have found something, a sense of peace.”_

He owed them, owed them this. But there was something more.

_I think we were both born to protect._

_“You’re the reason I’m alive.”_

_“You saved my life, Steve. I mean it. You gave up everything for me, way more than I deserve. Because of you, I have a life again. You need to stop blaming yourself for something that’s_ not your fault.”

_“But you blame yourself for what you did.”_

_“Because I want to make it right, as far as I possibly can.”_

_“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”_

_“That doesn’t bring them back.”_

_“I know.”_

He could never erase that blood from his past, even if he shifted the blame. Nothing he could do would cancel it out, it would always be there.

But this was the present, here, now, he was Bucky standing in the grass outside his hut in Wakanda… and he could make his choice.

_“It’s your choice now. And I know you will choose… to protect. You’re not going to try to hurt the ones you love when you’re trying to protect them.”_

_“One man fighting for what he loves can beat a hundred men just fighting.”_

He remembered the determination, the resolve as he faced the monster in the river. He remembered the rush of pure energy and strength as he fought for Steve, for Mabhuti, for _everyone_ really.

_“We’ve been in one too many fights, haven’t we?”_

_“Not too many when I’m fightin’ for you.”_

_“Stevie, when I was down there, I thought I was gonna die. And I thought if I did it would be worth it, because I’d saved you, saved the others. But then I realized you were worth more than that. I realized you were worth living for.”_

_“Cause I’m with you the end of the line.”_

This was serious, he knew, the safety of the world could be at stake. T’Challa hadn’t said yet, but he could sense his and Okoye’s tension as they waited.

Waited for his answer.

If he had ever wished for some small way to do what he had been denied all those years, if he had ever imagined fighting alongside Steve again, if he had ever tried to figure out some scenario where he could possibly join his captain’s team again (and he had), he had never pictured this.

And maybe that was right, maybe that was how it should be. Because it’s how a man responds when he is _not_ prepared that shows who he is.

So he answered.

_“I hope that day never comes, but if it does, I know you’ll make the right choice. Just know I’ll follow you the whole way. The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’ll follow him to the end of the world.”_

“Where’s the fight?”

T’Challa’s reply was instant, confident, as if he expected nothing else. “On its way.”

***

He did his best to walk tall and straight; it wasn’t hard. Shuri had calibrated his new arm so perfectly it felt as natural as a hug from Steve or a battle to fight. The LZ was buzzing with people, Dora Milaje, palace guards, and others hurrying around, though all with purpose.

Well, if what T’Challa had told him was true, they were going to need to be ready. A mad man who wanted to take over the world wasn’t particularly new, but the suggested size and origins of this one were… a little over the top.

He glimpsed the Quinjet, and moved a little quicker, then caught Nat’s voice, coming toward him. “How we looking?”

T’Challa: “You will have my King's Guard, the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and…”

Bucky smirked. “A semi-stable hundred-year-old man,” he called.

His eyes met Steve’s and Steve was smiling, and Bucky felt his heart lift, the shadows retreating from the light in that smile.

Steve reached for him, and he reached back. It was a briefer hug than usual, but that was all it took to say everything they needed to. Because they'd said it all a hundred times before.

“How you been, Buck?” Steve’s voice was soft, his eyes as blue as the sky behind the clouds.

“Not bad.” He grinned at his brother. “For the end of the world.”

 

_...But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother._

  _Proverbs 18:24b_

∞ ∞ ∞

 

 _We’ve taken different paths_  
_Travelled different roads_  
_I know we’ll always end up on the same one when we’re old_

_…_

_If I was dying on my knees_  
_You would be the one to rescue me_  
_And if you were drowned at sea_  
_I’d give you my lungs so you could breathe_  
_I’ve got you brother_

_…_

_Though we don’t share the same blood_  
_You’re my brother and I love you, that’s the truth_

_…_

_And if we hit troubled waters_  
_I’ll be the one to keep you warm and safe_  
_And we’ll be carrying each other_  
_Until we say goodbye on a dying day_  
_Because I’ve got you, brother_  
_I’ve got you brother_

_-‘Brother’ by Kodaline_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian:  
>  _Zhelaniye_ : longing  
>  _Rzhavyy_ : rusted  
>  _Semnadtsat’_ : seventeen  
>  _Rassvet:_ daybreak  
>  _Pech’:_ furnace  
>  _Devyat’_ : nine  
>  _Dobrokachestvennyy:_ benign  
>  _Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu:_ homecoming  
>  _Odin:_ one  
>  _Gruzovoy vagon:_ freight car  
>  _Uvidet’? Ty v bezopasnosti. YA pryamo zdes’._ : See? You’re safe. I’m right here.  
>  _YA znayu:_ I know
> 
> Wakandan:  
>  _Nam:_ Me too
> 
> And that is really the end. I am sitting here thinking about Endgame tonight, and wishing upon all the stars I can't see behind the blue sky that Steve and Bucky can somehow keep on living.  
> It has not sunk in yet that this is really the end of this story. I have poured my heart and soul into it for the last six months and it will be very strange without it. But rest assured I have more projects coming up, involving our beloved brothers.  
> Thank you to every single person who has stopped in to read this story. I hope it has been worth your time. These guys have the most amazing friendship out there, and I know they have left their impact on me. I hope you enjoyed this ride with them as much as I did! ^_^  
> To Griselda_Banks: I feel like I owe you more than I can ever pay. I could not have done this without you. I love you, big sis! *hugs*  
> To my sister Rachael: I'm back now! Thanks for letting me work like a mad woman. Let's have some fun! =)  
> And to you reading this. God bless you! 
> 
> PS the coda is Steve and Bucky's song that I wrote. 100% original. Hoping to record it with friends next month when things are less crazy. I'll keep you posted!


	26. Coda

When the sun is high

And the sky is blue

When we laugh together

And all is well for you

I will be there

As the earth turns

In the growing pains

As the leaves fall

In the season’s change

I will be there

 

I will smile with you

I will cry with you

And I will hold you close

When a cold wind blows

I will fight for you

And we will see this through

Cause I am here

I’m with you ‘til the end of the line

∞ ∞ ∞

When the sun goes down

And the clouds go black

When the ground drops out

And there’s no way back

I will be there

As the fire rages

In the searing pain

As the ashes settle

In the pouring rain

I will be there

 

And I will stand with you

I will fall with you

And I will hold you close

Until the fear lets go

I will fight for you

And we will see this through

Cause I am here

I’m with you ‘til the end of the line

∞ ∞ ∞

Where the mountains touch the sky

And the stars never dim

Where your hand is loose in mine

And the air wears thin

I will be here

As the past weighs heavy

In the last good fight

As the shadows lengthen

In a last twilight

I will be here

 

I will stand for you

I will fall with you

And I will hold you close

When this life lets go

I will fight for you

And we will see this through

I will be here with you

Here at the end of the line


End file.
